“A Runner?” Hawes’s voice rose in volume, probably to warn those in the flats that one of the famed Runners was demanding entry. “But Mr. Pickett is dead and gone. I’m about to have his chambers cleared, so another gentleman can take up residence.”
“Good thing we came today then,” Spendlove growled. “Open it up, you.”
“His name is Mr. Hawes,” I told Spendlove. “He is the manager at the Arlington.”
“I don’t care if he is Christ himself. Open the bloody door.”
I shot Hawes an apologetic look. He heaved an aggrieved sigh and dragged keys from his coat pocket.
“Please search quietly,” Hawes begged, though he must know such a request was futile. “There are gentlemen sleeping.”
“Or trying to,” Nightcap yelled down.
Spendlove ignored him. He speared Hawes with his cold stare as Hawes finally managed to unlock the door. Hawes pulled it open, and Spendlove shouldered his way past him.
Hawes panted up the staircase in Spendlove’s wake. “I must unlock upstairs as well.”
I quietly closed the front door behind me, shutting out the rain. I ascended more slowly, taking in the peaceful hush of the stairwell, broken now by Spendlove rumbling at Hawes to hurry.
I half expected Nightcap to burst out of his room on the first floor as I passed it, but no one appeared. I wished him a pleasanter sleep for the rest of the morning.
By the time I reached the third floor, Hawes had Pickett’s flat open. I removed my hat as I entered the outer room and set it on a table next to the door.
Hawes tried to slip past me in retreat. Spendlove immediately swung around and pointed a gloved finger at him.
“No. You, stay. Sit there.”
Hawes’s eyes rounded. He took another step toward the hall but then swallowed and moved to the settee Spendlove indicated, lowering himself to its edge.
Spendlove went immediately to the wardrobe Grenville had searched and yanked open its door. While Grenville had carefully brushed fingers over the coats’ fabric, Spendlove thrust his hands into pockets and dragged coats out to rip into their linings.
“Steady on,” I said in indignation. “Have some respect.”
“The man is dead, and I want to know who killed him,” Spendlove snapped. He swung on Hawes. “Was it you?”
Hawes flushed heavily. “No, no. I could never. Pickett wasn’t a bad sort. I had no complaint with him.”
He breathed hard, his eyes showing their whites. He’d never last against a skilled prosecutor, but I believed him. His indignation rang true.
Spendlove moved into the bedchamber and the bureau there, throwing the clothes inside to the bed before he tore into them. Hawes’ expression turned from fear to pain. No doubt he’d planned to sell the clothes Pickett had left behind.
I didn’t know what Spendlove was hunting for—a letter from Denis vowing to end Pickett’s life? A missive from the true killer confessing to the murder?
I remembered Pickett’s scrawled note to visit his bookmaker and began examining the torn coats for any information regarding wagers he’d made. I also searched through the clothes Spendlove had dumped on the bed but found nothing.
Next, I turned to the bedside table I’d explored previously. Its drawer was empty, as I’d taken the diary and letters, but I noted this time that the drawer rattled a bit when I tried to close it.
A thought struck me, and I removed the drawer entirely, flipping it over. Its bottom was loose, and I pried it away.
“Ah, here we are.”
Spendlove was across the room in an instant. Hawes left his post in the sitting room to see what I’d found, but in curiosity, not worry.
“Vowels,” I said, placing a dozen slim pieces of paper on the bed. “For what he owed. And these.” I laid out four small squares cut from cork, each about an inch square. They all bore a smudge of blue paint on one side and had letters and numbers on the other. AW 2-12, I read on the first of these. The second was marked HmD 4-20. The other two had similar incomprehensible letters and numbers.
Spendlove scooped them up. “What are they?” he demanded of me.
“I have no idea.” I touched the vowels, which had large sums written on them. “But if these were unpaid, Pickett had fallen deep indeed.”
