“They went to his rooms?” I asked. Such gentlemen might have carriages at their disposal, ones that could transport the dead Pickett across the city without getting him wet.
“So he boasted,” Saxton answered. “But no, he gave us no names. I wagered they were simply country gents he met at his new digs in Bedfordshire.”
Possibly. Grenville’s friend Langley had also mentioned Pickett becoming acquainted with Bedfordshire men. Gentlemen of the area who’d known his cousin, I believe, I recalled Langley telling me. “Did any of you see Mr. Pickett on Monday?” I asked.
They took their time to think about it, but there was much shaking of heads and mumbles of “Not since last week,” and the like.
“We meet one Wednesday a month,” Mr. Saxton said. “He were here at the last Wednesday meeting, but I’ve never seen him outside this room. Think that’s true for most of us.”
There were nods of agreement. Cudgeon didn’t answer, but I’d already known he’d had an appointment with Pickett on the night of his death.
“Pickett held himself above the rest of us,” stated one of the better-dressed gentlemen. “He inherited a cottage in the country and gave himself plenty of airs for that.” The man looked amused as though he knew Pickett’s circumstances were less than lucrative.
“Why did he join these gatherings?” I asked. “If he held himself above everyone?”
“Lofty ideals,” Dunwood answered. “He saw wrongs and wanted them put right. As we all do. I pegged him in a group of gents like the one you and Mr. Grenville attended tonight, coves that go on about the state of things but never lift a finger to change them. Invited him here. He was happy to sit and listen.”
“And you’ve let me into your enclave,” I said. “Why do you think I will not report you to the Runners?”
“Cause we ain’t the Cato Street idiots,” Saxton growled from the back wall. “They’re a lot of fools, had spies in their midst egging them on into mad schemes of murder and mayhem. It’s the Runner’s men what goaded them who should have been arrested, in my opinion. And the conspirators should have checked that what the spies were telling them were true.”
All good points, I agreed.
“Still, you are trusting me,” I said. I sensed Brewster quivering in the corner, wishing I’d cease speaking.
“Anything we discuss here is perfectly legal,” Dunwood said smoothly. “We come up with ideas for lessening the burden of those scratching for a living and present them to gents with the ear of someone in government. Hand-picked ones the MPs and Lords will listen to and not dismiss out of hand.”
“Is this effective?” I asked with true interest.
Cudgeon nodded. “We’ve already had a petition against the Corn Laws presented to Parliament. There are other petitions as well, such as better policing on the streets of the metropolis.”
“Blokes like me don’t have much of a voice,” Saxton said. “But here I do.”
“Admirable,” I said with sincerity. “I agree, there is much that the highborn are blind to.” I’d seen poverty and desperation at its rawest when I’d eked out an existence in Grimpen Lane, aware I was lucky to have even the rooms I did.
“They ain’t so much blind as don’t want to know,” Saxton said sourly. “If you own half a county your ancestors got for looking the other way at some king’s carryings-on, you want the laws to favor you selling your grain for great profit, don’t you? Or keeping your sheep on hills where small farmers used to grow enough for their families to eat.”
I couldn’t argue. The ways of the world were very uneven. I commended these men for trying to better it in the small way they could.
“Why do you think Pickett was murdered?” I asked the room at large.
Again, they took their time answering. “He wasn’t a rude bloke,” a man who hadn’t spoken before said. “Didn’t make enemies. Talked a bit too much, but many a gent does that.”
“Knew something he shouldn’t?” Dunwood suggested.
“Or someone thought he did,” Saxton said.
“I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Saxton,” I said. “Perhaps Pickett believed he had important information, and someone else believed him as well.”
There were nods, but no one suddenly betrayed guilt. A few more offered more theories, such as what most who didn’t believe Denis had done it thought—a footpad who’d seen a mark and taken a chance.
After a time of this discussion it was clear they could tell me no more, or at least they’d decline to in this collective setting. I set aside my tankard and rose. “Thank you, gentlemen, for an instructive conversation. If I learn anything more about Mr. Pickett’s death, I will send word to Mr. Cudgeon.”
Cudgeon, who’d heaved himself to his feet, gave me a nod. “I would be obliged, Captain. And please understand that anything said in this room is spoken in confidence. Whether by us or by you.”
I bowed. “I am grateful to you for your trust. Good night.”
I took up my hat and moved to the door, Brewster materializing to open it for me. He hustled me down the stairs before I could say a farewell to any of the gentlemen personally.
