Once we were on the street, a light rain pattering on my tall hat, I suggested we begin in Pickett’s rooms. Spendlove agreed readily.
I insisted on a hackney, knowing I’d have a long day on my injured leg. Spendlove waited with me at the hackney stand with ill-disguised impatience but made no comment on my feebleness. He even assisted me into the coach—if a firm shove on my back constituted help.
“Pomeroy let me have a look at Pickett’s clothes,” I told him as we rolled off.
I wanted to know if he’d noticed what I had, or had any more intelligence from them, but Spendlove only fixed me with a narrowed gaze. “What did you make of them?”
His request for my opinion surprised me a bit, but I was happy to enlighten him. “They were too dry for a man who’d walked in the rain.”
Spendlove gave me a grudging nod that almost held respect. “I thought that too. I wondered if you’d be as quick.”
“Then why are you still convinced Denis was his killer?” I asked in annoyance. “Denis would hardly have a dead man toted to his front door so a patroller could find him standing over it, knife in hand.”
“Mr. Denis does things for his own reasons,” was Spendlove’s enlightened answer.
Denis had deliberately let himself be arrested, it was true. It could be that he’d concocted an elaborate scheme to give Haywood a chance to act, and Pickett was the unfortunate victim Denis had decided to use. I could easily picture Gibbons doing the deed and sending the body off to Seven Dials in such a way that it would never be traced to him.
A very unlikely scenario, I told myself. Denis had seemed genuinely mystified about why Pickett had missed his appointment and turned up in Seven Dials. Then again, if Gibbons had been given free rein, Denis might have known nothing regarding Gibbons’ part in it, so that he could swear to it on oath.
I frowned, uncertain whether my conclusion that Pickett was killed elsewhere exonerated Denis or landed him more firmly in it. Spendlove would choose the latter, I knew.
“Her ladyship’s cook will not be happy with me for abandoning breakfast,” I observed into the silence. “You might have to answer to her when I’m called on the carpet for it.”
Spendlove’s scowl didn’t lessen at my jest. “A man should not be bullied by his servants. They work for you.”
Thus spoke a man who had few, if any, servants. “Every person in that house was hand-picked by my wife for their expertise,” I told him. “They are specialists at what they do, and we should respect them for it. One cannot simply be exchanged for another.” Barnstable, with his homemade remedies, his thorough knowledge of almost every person in London, and his flashes of extreme kindness, was irreplaceable.
“A few years ago, you didn’t even have someone to empty your slops.” Spendlove sniffed and brushed a gloved finger over his nose. “Not even a batman left over from your army days.”
I cooled. “My batman was a friend, and he was killed at Corunna. He too was not expendable.”
Did Spendlove apologize for dredging up a past sorrow? No, he continued his chilly stare. “Now you have a butler. Who had no intention of letting me near the silver. And a valet, courtesy of Mr. Grenville.”
He knew much about our household, but then, Spendlove was thorough. “I am grateful to my friends for their aid. But her ladyship’s staff work for her, not me. Barnstable would fend off the devil himself for her ladyship.”
Spendlove only sniffed again—perhaps he had a cold coming on—and stared out of the window.
Not long later, we trundled along Piccadilly and turned down St. James’s Street, quiet at this time of the morning. The coachman passed Brooks’s club and let us off at the entrance to Park Place.
We strode in silence through the misty rain to the Arlington. Spendlove stepped up to the house next to the club and pounded on its front door.
“We should ask for the key at the Arlington,” I told him. “Though this early, I imagine no one is there.”
Spendlove ignored me. His gloved fist beat the door once again.
A few sash windows scraped open above us and heads poked out. One man wore a nightcap.
“What the devil do you mean, making all that noise?” the one in the nightcap called down.
“Open up,” Spendlove shouted back. “Or I’ll have all of you for obstructing the law.”
Two of the heads instantly withdrew. Nightcap remained. “The law?” he bellowed. “I’ll have the law on you for disturbing the peace.”
The black door of the Arlington flew open, and Mr. Hawes, the manager, trotted out. He was fully dressed, but by the smear of butter on his mouth, he, like me, had been having his breakfast.
“What is the meaning of—oh.” Hawes halted when he saw me, whipped out a handkerchief, and dabbed the butter from his face. “Captain Lacey. What on earth?”
“This is Mr. Spendlove,” I said, letting my disapproval of the man ring in my voice. “He is a Runner and wants to see Mr. Pickett’s rooms.”
