A cynical outlook, and one that was hardly helpful. “Perhaps I should speak to the bookmakers,” I suggested. “By myself, I mean.”
Spendlove’s expression told me what he thought of that idea. “You’re not going in there on your own. What’s to say you won’t lie to me about what they tell you?”
He had a point, but so did I. Potential witnesses were more likely to open up to a guileless and somewhat ignorant army captain. A Runner landing in their midst would hardly coax the truth from them.
Spendlove had already turned away and pounded on the door of the house, rendering my argument null.
I asked the hackney driver to wait. He nodded with ill grace, as fed up with Spendlove as I was.
A slim man in a well-fitting suit and a thick shock of dark hair opened the door and gazed out at us with a neutral expression.
“Good morning, Mr. Spendlove,” he said smoothly, as though unsurprised a Runner had decided to visit. “Please, gentlemen, come in.”
While he’d recognized Spendlove, he glanced with curiosity at me, clearly unsure who I was.
“Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, sir.” I removed my hat as I stepped inside the small square foyer. “We have come to inquire about the gambling habits of one Mr. Bernard Pickett.”
The man offered his hand. “Jonathan Christie. Please enter, Captain Lacey.”
His politeness was studied, a man who knew how to deal with many sorts of clients. Mr. Christie’s suit resembled any Grenville would wear, but though his accent was meant to put him above the working classes, I could tell it had been carefully cultivated.
Mr. Christie led me to an office into which Spendlove had already stormed. Three clerks turned uncertainly from standing desks, looking to Mr. Christie for guidance.
This seemed to be a perfectly ordinary clerk’s room at any business establishment. Glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls, with a large desk and chair in front of them for Christie. A fire crackled in a paneled fireplace, lending warmth to the chamber.
The clerks regarded us respectfully, but I detected a hint of apprehension beyond surprise at being interrupted.
“These gentlemen want to ask about Mr. Pickett,” Christie announced. “Could I have his book, please?”
One of the clerks obediently walked to one of the bookcases, opened its door, ran his finger along a row of ledgers, and withdrew one of the tall tomes. He quietly closed the glass door and carried the book to Mr. Christie.
Christie set the ledger on a reading stand and opened it, flipping unhurriedly through pages. Spendlove stepped up to peer over his shoulder, but Christie continued to leaf through the book without worry.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Pickett.” Christie scanned the entries as though he was unfamiliar with them. “He placed quite a lot of wagers over the years. None of them very fruitful, I am afraid.” He looked up at us apologetically. “He died owing us several hundred guineas, actually.”
Christie swept a slender hand across the ledger as though telling us the pages didn’t lie.
“I found a number of vowels in his rooms,” I said. “Along with these.” I removed the cork squares from my pocket. “Can you tell me what they are?”
Spendlove was nearly breathing down Christie’s neck. Christie professed not to notice as I laid the squares onto the ledger.
I felt the scrutiny of the clerks, as though they held their collective breath. A quick glance at them showed me they were staring at Christie, intent on his composed movements.
“These are a little invention of mine,” Christie said calmly. “They are how I keep track of my clients’ wagers. We have so much business, we sometimes need a little prompt to remember who has wagered what.” He turned each square over. “The blue mark means the bet is for the horse to place. Red is to win. On the back, my men at the track note the odds at the time the wager was made.”
I regarded the markers with rising interest. “The letters presumably tell you which horse each was for?”
“They do, indeed. AW is Apollo’s Wish—one of Lord Featherstonehaugh’s stud, and a poor runner indeed. HmD is Heimdall, who is only marginally better.”
“Mr. Pickett made these wagers at the race meeting,” I said, understanding. “If he’d won, he’d turn them in to one of your assistants at the track or to you here for his winnings, correct?”
“That is true.” Christie laid the squares tidily on the ledger and ran a fingertip along until he stopped at entries for AW, HmD, and the other two. “I am afraid none of these horses won or even placed, as you can see.” He moved aside so Spendlove could study the entries. “Apollo’s Wish came dead last, and this one scratched at the last minute, after wagering was closed.” His finger rested on the initials QD.
Spendlove frowned at the entries for a time before he stepped away.
“Did you kill Pickett because of the several hundred guineas he owed you?” he demanded. “You followed him to Seven Dials, and when he wouldn’t pay up, one of your ruffians stabbed him to death. Yes?”
Christie blinked in horrified surprise. “Good heavens, no. Even if it wasn’t against all civilized laws, killing a debtor would be very bad for business.”
