“Of course you are. Francis Taylor.” The man held out his hand. “Forgive my testiness, but you woke me from a sound sleep this morning.”
I shook a hand that was steady and strong. Yes, he could very well have driven a knife into Pickett’s chest. “You never answered my question.”
“Eh?” The man’s scowl deepened. “What question?”
“I asked if Mr. Pickett had any visitors on Monday night. You evaded the answer.”
Mr. Taylor scanned the narrow lane behind me. “Is that Runner bloke with you?”
“Mr. Spendlove? No. And I will not necessarily tell him anything you say to me.”
“Not necessarily,” Taylor repeated. “I see. I suppose you mean you will not unless I turn out to be Pickett’s murderer. Yes, someone came to call on Pickett very late Monday night. You might say early Tuesday morning. They must have thought they were being quiet and discreet, but no. Pickett’s friends are always noisy.”
“So this visitor kept you awake?” I asked.
“Indeed. Swearing and arguing, he and Pickett were. Couldn’t make out any exact words, which might at least have been interesting. I was glad when things quieted down.”
“What time was that?”
Taylor shrugged. “Must have been gone two. I checked my watch at quarter ’til. Maybe another quarter hour had passed before they ceased.”
“You didn’t happen to notice who went upstairs to argue with him?” I asked without much hope.
“I did not.” Taylor’s gaze held true regret. “I didn’t know Pickett would be murdered the next morning, did I? ’Course that happened in Seven Dials. He must have met someone else he argued with.”
“No,” I corrected him. “I believe Pickett was killed in his flat. In this very house.”
Taylor’s mouth popped open. “Good Lord, you are not joking, are you?” He cleared his throat, unnerved. “Well, do not tell Hawes. The man will faint.”
“Hawes must have let the killer in,” I said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Pickett was capable of walking downstairs and opening a door. It was very late. I imagine Mr. Hawes was in bed by then.”
“I will ask him. Thank you, sir.”
I turned toward the club to seek Mr. Hawes, and Taylor fell into step with me. “I say, sir, you’ve roused my curiosity. Let me find Hawes with you.”
Bartholomew joined us as the footman opened the Arlington’s door.
“Fetch Hawes,” Taylor commanded the footman before I could speak. “There’s a good fellow.”
As the lad darted away, Taylor motioned for me to accompany him inside. Bartholomew remained in the foyer, taking the hat I handed him before I followed Taylor to a nearby anteroom.
The room was small but comfortable, with white-painted paneling, Louis XV chairs, and a lit fireplace. Paintings adorned the walls, nothing valuable, I believed, though pleasant enough to look at.
“Did Pickett ever speak to you about race meetings?” I asked Taylor as we each sank to a gilt-legged chair.
“Yes,” Taylor answered without a pause. “He wagered and lost on them all the time. Couldn’t not tell anyone about them. Tedious, it was. Where were you in the war?”
I wondered at his abrupt change of subject, but I had no objection to telling him. “I was everywhere. I volunteered at the tender age of twenty at the urging of a captain—who is now a colonel. Made a lieutenant after Mysore, then captain after Vitoria.” My father had died the same year, never hearing of my promotion.
“Quite a career,” Taylor observed. His interest seemed genuine. “Mysore, you say? What was that like?”
Before I could launch into any details about hot, humid Indian campaigns, Mr. Hawes opened the door.
“Captain?” Like Tayler, he glanced about as though wondering if Spendlove accompanied me. His relief when he did not see him was obvious. “How can I help you?”
“He wants to know who came to see Pickett late Monday night,” Taylor said before I could speak. “Early Tuesday, actually. Did you let him in?”
