“I could question Christie again, without Spendlove’s interference,” I said, growing uncomfortable with his intense gaze. “Though I doubt he’d tell me anything more.”
“He is adept at keeping secrets,” Denis answered. “A better idea is to have your friends watch the premises and alert you when one of Pickett’s associates attempts to claim the money.”
“If it hasn’t been already. Maybe Pickett collected the cash and was killed for it when he crossed the city again. We’ve wondered why nothing was taken, but perhaps the robber found so much money that he didn’t need to bother with the man’s watch or handkerchief.”
“Unlikely, as you have already reasoned,” Denis said. “Christie would have told you, with genuine sorrow, if he’d paid out to Pickett. Keeping that information quiet would not benefit him—he’d prefer you and Spendlove to look elsewhere for whoever took the winnings from him. Christie doesn’t fear the Runners—he fears losing money.”
“Then Christie himself might have murdered him.”
“Possibly, though that would be out of character for him.”
I moved to the edge of my chair. “We had better act at once.” I wasn’t certain whether Denis would lend me a few men to help watch the place, but no matter if he did not. I’d recruit Brewster and Grenville, and find others who could assist.
Robbie returned with the prickly Mr. Stout in tow.
Stout gave me a scowl but his stance before Denis was respectful. “Guv?”
“I need information on recent horse races,” Denis said. “Point-to-points or flat races, even informal ones. Have any had an unusual win?”
“Aye, one did,” Stout answered promptly. “Last week, out Dunstable way. Horse came in at thirty-to-one, odds against. Gents tried to claim the rider cheated, but there was no sign of it. Bookmakers wept but paid out. Not many wagered on that horse, though, because he was way outside.”
I rose with animation. “So, if Pickett made a reckless bet, say a hundred guineas …”
“He’d have won three thousand, plus his original stake.” Stout lost his churlish expression for a moment of reverence. “A fortune.”
“You are proposing he put most of his legacy on a horse?” Denis brought us down to earth with his disbelieving tone.
“From what I understand of the man, it would be just like him,” I said. “He might have taken out fifty guineas for his furniture order and for Cudgeon, but Pickett was a habitual gambler. Could he resist using the rest of it to have a flutter? Even if he wagered only half of his inheritance, that would have brought him …” I tried and failed to do quick calculation in my head.
“A little more than twenty-three hundred,” Stout supplied.
“Still quite a lot of money.” I gave Stout an acknowledging nod. “He’s given a payment to Cudgeon, with the promised balance when Cudgeon finishes the order. Same to the furniture maker. Pickett then attends the race—his Bedfordshire house is probably not far from Dunstable—and decides to place the rest of his money on the long-odds horse, an action apparently typical for him. He makes the bet with one of Christie’s men, receiving the token with a red mark to win, and the odds plus the name of the horse on the back. To his amazement, he wins.”
“Why didn’t he take in the chitty right off?” Stout demanded. “I’d have been at that bookmaker so fast I’d have churned up the turf in me haste.”
“I’d do the same,” Robbie put in.
“Something prevented him.” I paced as I mused. “Pickett had a bee in his bonnet about the Cato Street Conspiracy. Perhaps he feared that if he was suddenly flush with cash, the Runners would haul him before a magistrate to answer awkward questions. He decided to wait—or someone convinced him to wait.”
“Then murdered him and stole the betting token,” Denis finished.
“Possibly. Was the killer indeed the person who convinced him to wait? Or one of the gentlemen who recommended you as the person to help him leave the country? If any of those three needed a quick influx of cash, and here is Pickett asking their advice on how to flee …”
“That, we will have to discover,” Denis said.
“Yes.” I knew I was wildly speculating. “The field is still broad. Was it one of his new Bedfordshire friends? Or Mr. Cudgeon, or one of Cudgeon’s assistants? One of Christie’s clerks or even Christie? Though you say it is not in his character, he might have been desperate not to pay out such a sum. Or was it someone at Pickett’s lodgings? They would have the best opportunity, I’d think. Mr. Hawes, for instance.”
Hawes was of a timid disposition and not very large—Pickett could have overpowered such a man coming at him with a knife. Unless, of course, Hawes took him by surprise, giving him no time to defend himself. Nightcap, however, was athletically built, blunt, and unafraid. Blustering about being awakened could have covered his nervousness at a Runner’s abrupt intrusion into the house.
I still hadn’t ruled out the Honorable Mr. Haywood, the man who’d paid off his debt to Denis by casting doubts on Spendlove’s arrest and freeing Denis from Newgate. Haywood could have murdered Pickett—or paid someone to—to give him the perfect task he could perform for Denis.
If Haywood were the killer, then Pickett’s death would have nothing to do with a win at the races, crumbling my theory to dust. Though Haywood or his accomplice could have found the token and pocketed it, I supposed. They might simply destroy it, not realizing what they had.
I let out a sigh. “I have much to do.”
“I agree.” Denis glanced at the desk’s surface as though he longed for papers to appear on it. “I will interview the gentlemen Mr. Pickett named in his letter to me. If any of them stole the token while he consulted with them, they will tell me. Likewise, if they murdered him.”
The quiet way Denis declared this chilled me.
