“You did do something about finding Lady’s daughter,” Denis said. “You turned the problem over to me. I have resources for this sort of thing.”
“That is true,” I acknowledged. “Whereas I, who am supposed to have gained skill at catching murderers, have come up with all sorts of motives for Pickett’s death, none of them the correct ones. I’ve been distracted by his worry about secret societies and the Cato Street arrests.”
“You said you wanted to ask me a question,” Denis prompted before I could begin too many musings. “What is it?”
I pulled my thoughts together. “You told me you answered Pickett’s appeal for your help because he could pay your fee. How did you know he could?”
Denis’s brows rose. “Because I inquired about him. I learned he’d recently inherited a house in Bedfordshire and money with it. I was reasonably certain he could pay me, even if he had to offer me the property in lieu of cash. Of course, if he could not produce the fee or proof he could obtain it at our first meeting, I would have turned him away.”
“And why did he miss his meeting with you?”
“You have now asked two questions,” Denis said dryly.
“I might be forgiven the second, because I am simply thinking out loud. What if Pickett missed the appointment because he was trying to get his hands on the funds with which to pay you and for some reason could not?”
Denis gave me a nod. “It is possible.”
“I have been hearing ever since I first became aware of Mr. Pickett that he was unlucky. He habitually lost money on the races, did not have a family or other support to fall back on, and could rent only cheap if respectable rooms while in Town. He recently inherited the house in Bedfordshire, which I have been told is modest rather than being a grand estate. He bought furnishings for it and ran up other personal debts, according to the vowels I found, but then he ordered half a dozen shooters from Mr. Cudgeon. Even one of his expertly made guns would set a man back a long way. So.” I paused significantly. “Where did he get the money for them?”
Denis looked interested despite himself. “His legacy?”
I shook my head. “The cousin apparently left him only a hundred and fifty guineas, along with the house. I found dunning notices from a furniture maker, which tells me he made only a partial payment for anything he purchased for his household . Even if he used a portion of the legacy to order the guns from Cudgeon, he’d never have enough to pay the for rest. Why did he believe he’d be able to make a final payment for those, settle his furniture bill, and pay you as well? I imagine your services are not inexpensive.”
Denis did not answer my last supposition. “Perhaps he truly was involved in one of these fiery political societies, and someone paid him to keep quiet about it.”
“That is a possibility, but not a likely one. The trouble with secret organizations is that they are not very secret. I was welcomed into Pickett’s without threat—in fact, they were happy I was looking into the circumstances of his death. I do not believe Pickett knew anything at all about the Cato Street men or any other conspiracy. That was his vivid imagination.”
Denis sent me an impatient look. “Very well, then, what is your solution? You have one, I can see. You are simply letting me propose others, so you can refute them.”
“Yes, forgive me. Grenville and I often debate like this, which helps us both to think.” I leaned forward, resting my weight on my walking stick. “My idea is this: What if Pickett did win at the races? Finally, after many tries. Won so much he could order guns, pay what he owed for his furniture and other debts, and promise you a hefty fee to help him flee to France in his overblown concern about his safety?”
Denis’s annoyance began to dissolve. “You could be correct.”
“The bookmaker I visited today swears up and down that Pickett lost almost every time, only winning a small amount on the exceptional occasion.” I thought of the quiet Mr. Christie and his unruffled demeanor, even with Spendlove at his shoulder. “I propose that when Christie heard of Mr. Pickett’s death, he conveniently erased this wager from his books—or possibly never logged it at all. If Pickett’s estate came calling, he could claim he knew nothing about it, and in fact, Pickett had owed him money. The heirs could try to take Christie to court, but the courts usually conclude that if a man loses money to a corrupt bookmaker, it is his own fault for being a fool. When Spendlove informed Christie that Pickett had no heirs, I swore that every man in the room breathed a sigh of relief. I did not understand at the time, but it fits.”
Denis’s hands twitched, a sign of his interest. “You believe he did not yet have the winnings when he wrote to me but assumed he’d be able to fetch them and bring them to the appointment.”
“And then for some reason he could not. Which is why he missed his meeting with you. Maybe he went to Finsbury Square to hand in his betting token and collect his cash, but found the place shut. Perhaps Mr. Christie saw him coming and decided to pull down the shades and not answer the door. If my speculations are correct, it must have been a powerful lot of money.”
“For which one man might kill another,” Denis said.
He and I regarded each other in perfect agreement.
“I must pose yet another question,” I said. “What became of the betting token?”
Chapter 23
Denis fixed his entire attention on me, which would have been unnerving any other time. “Any number of people might have it,” he said.
“From Pickett’s Bedfordshire friends to his downstairs neighbor.” I thought of my encounters with the nightcap-wearing man. “The neighbor eager to know what we were doing in the house. I need to speak to him again.”
“The bookmaker will not be keen on paying out even if the token it is found,” Denis said. “If someone already tried to hand it in, he might have taken it and destroyed it. I know Christie. He’s taught himself to be well-spoken to deal with his gentlemen clients, but he is a ruthless man.” That Denis believed so meant Christie was formidable indeed.
“It must have been a spectacular win if it was truly the motive for killing Pickett,” I said. “I admit, I haven’t kept up with the racing news.”
“Robbie,” Denis said to the large man at his post near the window. “Please fetch Mr. Stout.”
Robbie nodded and departed. Denis offered no explanation for why he needed Stout but continued to study me as I pondered.
