I ceased my agitated pacing, realizing I’d left my walking stick leaning against the chair in my frenzy. I seized it, my knee aching. “I will put a watch on Finsbury Square for anyone attempting to collect Pickett’s winnings. I’ll try to narrow the field as well, in case the man—or woman, I suppose—decides to wait weeks before approaching Christie. Is there a time limit on when a successful wager can be collected?” I asked Stout.
“Before the bookmaker closes his doors and hies to another country,” was Stout’s optimistic response.
“I see. Well, then, I will bid you good day, gentlemen. I hope when we meet again, the murderer has been arrested.”
“Or turned himself in,” Denis said. If Denis caught the man, he would probably hurry to Bow Street for his own safety.
None of the three in the room moved to escort me out, so I made my own way downstairs, regretting that I’d rushed about on my bad leg.
Gibbons was heading toward the front door as I descended. From his expression, he was still displeased with me for interrupting Denis’s chat with Lady.
“Mr. Gibbons,” I addressed him as I resumed my coat. “What time was Mr. Haywood’s appointment on the night before Mr. Pickett’s murder?”
“One o’clock in the morning.” Gibbons’ lips pinched. “Mr. Haywood wished to attend a supper ball first.”
His expression told me his opinion of Haywood was even lower than the one of me.
“Thank you, Gibbons. Good morning.”
“Afternoon.” Gibbons swung open the door to show a much lighter sky and no rain.
“Ah, yes. Good afternoon, Gibbons.”
Gibbons said nothing as I stepped outside. He slammed the door behind me, shutting me out of Denis’s house with finality.
I made my way home on foot, scarcely noticing the cold wind or even where I walked, so thoroughly did my whirling thoughts blot out my surroundings.
If I was correct about Pickett winning so large a sum, I’d have to proceed swiftly. Spendlove and I had alerted Christie that we were investigating Pickett’s affairs, and he might fear that we’d return with pointed questions. Christie could very well have doctored his ledgers to remove the record of Pickett’s wager, as I’d suggested to Denis. After all, the man was dead. If any heirs came calling, Christie could sadly show them the ledger he’d shown Spendlove and me.
I could be absolutely wrong about my conclusions, which was another thought that kept me from noticing the weather. Pickett might have lost his money on the race as usual, or not put down a wager at all. But a long-odds horse, the sort Pickett liked, running in a race so close to his new home, and then Pickett writing to Denis about coming into “good fortune” had to be connected. The good fortune to which he referred was not his legacy but his splendid win.
I nearly walked past my own house, so deep was I in contemplation. Only the footman calling out in puzzlement made me swing around and march inside.
I went straight to the library and dashed off a few brief letters. One to the magistrate, Sir Montague Harris, asking him what he could tell me about one Jonathan Christie. If Christie had a history of fraudulent behavior, Sir Montague would either already know about it or be able to discover it.
Second, I wrote to Grenville, asking if we could speak to his friend Langley again. Langley might know, even if he hadn’t attended the same race, whether Pickett had wagered a stake on the outside horse at Dunstable last week.
Third, I scribbled a brief note to Brewster, who’d gone back home after I’d run off with Spendlove, telling him I needed to set a watch on Christie’s establishment in Finsbury Square, what I’d be up to in the meantime, and where to meet me.
I hurried downstairs, instructing Barnstable to have the letters sent immediately, and prepared to set off to Pickett’s rooms again.
As I’d instructed Brewster to go elsewhere, I asked Bartholomew to accompany me. He was a stout fellow, good to have at my side if I encountered a man reluctant to admit he’d stolen a very lucrative betting token.
The hackney Bartholomew fetched took us through traffic to St. James’s and Park Place.
The Arlington was a little more lively on this warm and dry afternoon. Men came and went, some leaving the flats next door for the club or the other way about.
I descended in time to see Nightcap exit the club and stroll the short way to the door of the flats.
“Sir.” I called to him as I approached, my walking stick striking the pavement. Behind me, Bartholomew handed the hackney driver a coin and asked him to wait.
Nightcap man turned to me, his expression annoyed. “It’s you again, is it? The army officer poking about Mr. Pickett’s business? The poor man is dead. Leave him be.”
“How do you know I am an army officer?” I hadn’t given him my name, much less my history.
The gentleman waved a gloved hand at my frame. “It is written all over you, sir. Injured fighting Bonaparte, leathery face from marching in the sun, standing at attention. I avoided the whole sorry show, I am pleased to say.”
“I am Captain Gabriel Lacey,” I said. “Of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons.”
