The abject fear Hawes had showed Spendlove was absent on Christie’s face. I perceived contempt from him instead, which he hid beneath unruffled politeness.
“Then you lose your money.” Spendlove lifted the markers and dropped them on the book’s page.
Christie shrugged. “I will appeal to Mr. Pickett’s heirs, as will all his creditors.”
“Pickett had no family,” Spendlove informed him. “No wife or children, no brothers or sisters, that I’ve found. Only a deceased cousin, who left him a house in Bedfordshire, but the taxmen will likely take that property.”
Christie lifted the markers and closed the book. “Ah, well. Sometimes we do not profit. It is a risk we take in our profession.”
He appeared resigned, but like his accent, I believed Christie’s expression was artificial. I sensed relief from him more than frustration that he was out a few hundred guineas. The clerks had also relaxed and turned back to their desks.
If Spendlove noticed any of this, he made no sign. “More fool you,” he said to Christie. “Keep that book near to hand, in case I need it as evidence.”
Christie blenched, this reaction true. “There is confidential information in it, sir, on clients who have nothing to do with Mr. Pickett.”
“Just those pages then,” Spendlove conceded ungraciously.
“Evidence of what?” Christie handed the book back to the clerk, who hurried to return it to its shelf. “That Mr. Pickett enjoyed a flutter? Many gentlemen do. It is what allows me to remain in business.”
“Evidence he didn’t have a pot to piss in,” Spendlove said. “That a man wouldn’t have murdered him for his fortune. He’d have had other motives.” He swung his hard stare to me, silently indicating that his badgering of Mr. Christie didn’t mean he thought Denis in the clear.
I shrugged, keeping my countenance as bland as Christie’s.
“I thank you, Mr. Christie, for answering our questions,” I said, then continued in a casual tone, “Why do you suppose Mr. Pickett was so unlucky? I’d think, since he wagered often, that the odds would let him gain more than the very little he did. I know he won on occasion.”
“Extremely rare occasions.” Christie sounded amused. “Gentlemen will take tips from those who believe they know about horses when they do not. Or they choose based on a horse’s name, or the pattern of raindrops on a windowsill, or other things highly unlikely to affect the outcome of a race.”
Spendlove leaned dauntingly toward Christie. “Does anyone ever win? Or do all the horses your clients back come up lame?”
Christie’s indignation was unfeigned. “If you believe we run a corrupt shop, sir, you are wrong. Plenty of my clients—gentlemen and ladies both—win fair and square. Those clients are paid, sometimes handsomely. This is a business, a service to those who wish to place wagers safely and have them paid back honestly.”
His resentment that Spendlove would accuse him of cheating rang from him. The clerks likewise looked affronted.
Spendlove skewered him a glare, but Christie met his gaze without wavering. Christie would do very well on a witness stand, I mused, or in the dock. I wondered if he’d ever found himself in the latter.
Spendlove grunted. Without a farewell, he strode from the room, his tread sounding heavily in the uncarpeted hall.
I made Christie and his clerks a bow. “I thank you, sir. Gentlemen. Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Captain.” Christie’s goodbye was cooler than his welcome had been, but Spendlove could unsettle even the most composed of men.
The clerks nodded to me in return, and I clumped out after Spendlove.
Instead of heading for the coach, where Spendlove waited, I turned my steps in the other direction.
“Where are you going?” Spendlove barked.
“A moment.” I reached Lackington’s and stepped inside its front door, breathing a sigh as the bookroom’s calm atmosphere surrounded me.
I approached a clerk with my question, and he guided me toward books on ballooning. I purchased one, had it wrapped up for delivery to the South Audley Street house, and only then rejoined the impatient Spendlove.
Once we were settled in the hackney, Spendlove shouted at the coachman to take us to Bow Street. I’d ceased directing the hunt, I understood.
“What do you intend to do next?” I asked with impatience.
“Interview these friends of Pickett’s.” Spendlove pulled the squashed list Hawes had given him from his pocket. The ink had dried now but had been smeared further while residing in his coat. “Two of them lease houses in London. The others have residences in Bedfordshire.”
“Are you going to interview all of them? Today?” I asked in true dismay. Clearly he planned to drag me all over London with him.
