Was his death a simple matter of a shady creditor tired of waiting for him to pay? Making an example of Pickett to keep his other clients tame?
He’d had an appointment with his bookmaker the day before his death. To pay what he owed? Or to collect some meager winnings? Langley had mentioned Pickett had won a guinea or two in the past, though if these vowels were any indication, they’d have gobbled up that money in a trice.
“Did Pickett have much luck at the races?” I asked Mr. Hawes.
“Rarely,” Hawes answered with conviction. “Mr. Pickett was always optimistic when he went to race meetings but usually came home resigned. Never downcast—he was positive the next time would be a sure one.”
Spendlove let the cork squares fall back to the bed. “Maybe he won and didn’t tell you.”
“Mr. Pickett never was flush with cash,” Hawes said. “I’m certain he’d have boasted of it. He was never very discreet.” Hawes concluded this apologetically.
No, he hadn’t been. He’d burst out to Grenville that he feared he’d inadvertently helped the Cato Street conspirators, though the men I’d spoken to last night had not struck me as the type to start riots and assassinate people. Rather, they buttonholed MPs and presented petitions against the Corn Laws. I doubted any of them, including the large Mr. Saxton, could have feared exposure from Pickett.
Cudgeon was confident that Pickett had purchased the guns for hunting, not for leading a revolution. Both Saxton and Langley had mentioned a group of country gentlemen Pickett was proud to have joined. I agreed that the guns had been for them.
Why, then, had Pickett grown concerned that he’d somehow played a part in the Cato Street debacle?
“Mr. Hawes.” I kept my tone gentle. “Did Pickett host gatherings in these chambers? Of gentlemen he knew from Bedfordshire, perhaps?”
Hawes’s confused frown cleared. “Ah, them. Not in these rooms, but in the club next door. Mr. Pickett invited them, yes. Mostly to talk about shooting in the country or some such thing.”
“What gentlemen?” Spendlove demanded. “I need their names.”
Hawes spluttered. “Really, sir, that is most irregular.”
Spendlove abandoned the vowels and cork squares, which I gathered up, and advanced on Hawes. “You tell me the name of every single person who visited Pickett here, or I’ll bang you up for thwarting my investigation.”
Hawes, on his feet, dithered. “I don’t remember names. I would have to consult the Arlington’s guest book.”
Spendlove waved him to the door. “Do it now. There’s nothing here.”
He herded Hawes out the door, leaving me alone with Pickett’s belongings scattered over the bed, the drawers in the bureau sagging from Spendlove’s brusque search.
I collected the clothes and folded them as neatly as I could, finding nothing further inside them. Pickett had been conscientious about cleaning out his pockets, it seemed. I often left scraps of paper, letters, bits of string, and other things I’d come across in my pockets. Bartholomew often shook his head over what he found—half a loaf of bread once that Mrs. Beltan had pressed upon me.
Pickett had cleared his with thoroughness and stashed anything he didn’t want found under the false bottom of the drawer.
If Pickett had hidden these odd pieces of cork, he must have had a good reason. I gathered them up, along with the vowels, and slid all into the pocket inside my coat.
I closed the wardrobe, sent a silent word of sympathy to the deceased Pickett, and left the chamber.
When I reached the first-floor landing, a man strode down a short hall to me. “Is the noise finished?” he demanded.
It was Nightcap, now dressed and minus the cap. The man’s dark hair was slicked with pomade, his suit well-tailored.
I gave him a polite bow. “I apologize, sir. Yes, we are finished.”
“What’s a Runner doing here at this hour of the morning, anyway? Trying to decide who did for Pickett? He needs to look no further than the nearest race meeting. Pickett was always getting up everyone’s nose because he couldn’t win on a horse if God himself chose it.”
“Did you happen to see anyone visiting him on Monday?” I asked, keeping the question businesslike. “Or late in the week before that?”
Nightcap looked me up and down. “Why are you interested? I thought you were one of Pickett’s friends, dragged here by the Runner.”
“I never knew Mr. Pickett,” I admitted. “I am trying to bring his murderer to justice.”
The man’s snort was worthy of Brewster. “Some robber in the street most like. Pickett didn’t have many visitors. Only the gents he’d meet in the club. They gabbed about sport—shooting, boxing, and racing. Nothing very profound.”
“Not politics, then?” I asked.
