Denis raised the paper in his hand ever so slightly. “I have people taking care of things for me. I will return home soon.”
“If that is the case, why are you moving in and decorating?”
Denis’s cool blue eyes flickered as one of his men shoved the desk into the middle of the room—it was cold by the walls. The desk was small, unlike the large Hepplewhite affair in his elegant house. It bore the cabriole legs of an earlier style and had shell motifs carved on the drawers. It was a fine piece of furniture, possibly brought out of Denis’s attic where it was stashed for emergencies.
“Admittedly, the machinery of the law can take some time,” Denis conceded. “Why are you so certain I didn’t kill the man?”
“You’d never be so careless,” I answered without hesitation. “I have seen you enraged before, but even then, your choices were calculated, not rash.”
The ghost of a smile touched Denis’s mouth. “I am pleased you believe in me.”
I wasn’t certain whether he was being sincere or sardonic. “It matters little what I believe. It only matters what truly happened, and how you will prove this to a judge and jury.”
“I doubt I will stand trial.” Denis lifted one shoulder the slightest bit, as though he had no worry in that regard. “As I have said, there are those working to release me, hopefully without a stain on my character. At least, not for this.” The smile flitted across his face again.
“I am pleased you are enjoying yourself. Spendlove, however, is out for your blood, as well as the rich reward he will obtain when you are found guilty and condemned to hang. No doubt he plans to retire to the country with the funds, to tend his garden and paint watercolors or some such.”
“Even a determined Runner must have evidence,” Denis said. “Mr. Spendlove has none.”
A lackey pushed the chair into place behind the desk. Denis thanked him with a nod and seated himself, laying his papers on the surface before him. If the stone walls had melted into warm, rich paneling, and windows materialized with a view of nearby mansions, we might be in his study at his Curzon Street house. At any moment, Gibbons might appear with a cup of steaming coffee or a goblet of brandy to set at my elbow.
“Spendlove will twist heaven and earth to make the evidence appear and be damning,” I stated. “You have surprising faith in the law.”
“Not surprising.” Denis rested his hands on the desk’s top. “The legal system grinds slowly but it grinds predictably. There are sticklers for the rules who will insist the trial be aboveboard, and a judge will be careful in his conviction of me. He won’t risk the humiliation of his decision being overturned by the Lord Chancellor.”
“If you are already dead before the conviction is overturned, that will not help you,” I pointed out. “The gallows do a brisk business here, if you hadn’t noticed.”
The other men in the room paused in their business to watch me grimly. Not because they were angry at my pronouncements, I saw, but because they agreed with me.
I wondered why Denis was being so obtuse about his chances. He must be very certain no evidence would be found to point to him, even him standing over a body with a knife. Either that or he’d already worked out how he’d escape this prison and not be caught and brought back.
“Who was this man you were supposed to have killed?” I asked. “Pickett, Brewster said his name was.”
“I have no idea,” Denis answered without hesitation. “I’d never seen him before.”
“No? And why were you out in the rain in Seven Dials to stumble over a body in the first place?”
“Why I was there is my business. As you say, I more or less stumbled over the body. It was quite dark at five o’clock this morning, and I nearly trod on him.”
“So, you leaned down and picked up a blood-soaked knife?”
Denis at last showed a touch of impatience. “I first nudged the man to ascertain if he was conscious, and then I tried to see who he might be. I’d never have simply leaned over him, in case he was an enemy poised to attack. But he was, indeed, dead. I noted that he was a middle-class man or one of the gentry—someone with no business in Seven Dials. I recognized my knife and held it up. That, I agree, was foolish.”
“Spendlove sprang from the shadows at the critical moment?” I asked.
“He and his patrollers did. I imagine he’d been following me. He is quite skilled at it.” He sounded, for Denis, impressed.
“Then Spendlove knows about your house in Seven Dials,” I said.
“Anyone who looks up records of sale would know. I am listed as the owner of several properties in London. I do pay my taxes.”
I did not think I’d heard Denis make so many witticisms so close together in the years I’d known him. I could not decide if he found the situation comical or he was covering up fear.
“How was the man killed with your own knife?” I asked. “Did you notice it was out of your possession?”
“I did not. It was a paperknife, one I use in the Seven Dials house to open books and letters.”
“Which means someone who’d been in the house killed Pickett with it.”
