Hawes shook his head, his voice becoming breathy. “I admitted no one. If a man visited Mr. Pickett, I did not see him.”
“There.” Taylor gave me with a you see? gesture. “Pickett must have let the man in himself.”
Hawes calmed, liking this explanation. “I suppose he did.”
“May I see Pickett’s rooms again?” I asked. “I know I continue to request this, but it is important.”
It was clear Hawes wanted to deny me, but with Taylor watching him so intently, he decided capitulating was the easiest option. Hawes nodded, quickly exiting. I followed, and Taylor, still curious, came with me. Bartholomew trailed us as we left the club.
Hawes did not speak as we entered the house next door and made the long climb to Pickett’s rooms. Hawes’s fingers shook as he unlocked the door, but he made no argument about us entering.
The flat was stuffy, the closed windows on the warming day letting no air move. I opened the wardrobe in the front room to find Pickett’s coats, some still sadly torn, back on the shelves and pegs within. Hawes must have replaced them.
I knew Spendlove had searched thoroughly—he knew how to hunt for evidence—but he’d not known then what we were looking for. I removed two frock coats, feeling the linings for any telltale signs of one of Christie’s betting tokens.
Finding nothing, I replaced the coats, then went to the bureau in the bedchamber and briefly stabbed my fingers through the linens in the top drawer. Nothing there either. I opened all the drawers with the same result, then closed them and eyed the bed.
I started to sink to my knees, ready to search beneath, but Bartholomew stopped me. With enviable agility, he dropped to the floor and stretched out his long body, balancing on hands and toes.
“What are you looking for, sir?” Bartholomew asked.
“Anything tucked into the mattress or beneath the bed slats,” I said. “A small box. Or a folded piece of paper.” The betting token could have been enclosed in that.
Bartholomew scanned the space then rolled over and scooted under the bed. “Nothing I can see, Captain,” came his muffled tones.
I waited for Bartholomew to wriggle himself out and climb to his feet before I turned to the two men who hovered behind me.
“Mr. Hawes,” I said, pinning him with my sternest gaze. “What did you do with the betting token?”
Hawes gaped, his confusion mounting.
Then he abruptly snapped his mouth closed, turned, and fled.
Chapter 24
Bartholomew instantly sprang after Hawes, racing into the hall and to the stairs, plunging down them after his quarry. Mr. Taylor, displaying remarkable energy, charged behind Bartholomew, leaving me, cursing and hobbling, behind.
By the time I reached the ground floor and made my way out the front door, the three had already gained the busy thoroughfare of St. James’s Street. Bartholomew’s golden head bobbed like a beacon in the sea of carts and carriages.
I hurried forward the best I could then paused at the end of Park Place to catch my breath. Hawes was nowhere in sight and neither was Mr. Taylor. Bartholomew, towering above the crowd of men in greatcoats and high hats, saw me and shrugged. He’d lost them.
Hawes, damn him, must know exactly what had happened to Pickett, whether he’d killed the man or had simply been a witness. Either way, he’d been afraid to come forward. Spendlove showing up on his doorstep must have terrified him.
A carriage nearly ran me down as I stood gazing about, its coachman shouting invectives. Once it had moved on, I spied Hawes. He quivered on the other side of St. James’s Street, silhouetted against the stone edifices there.
I put my head down and charged across the road, willing the Almighty to make certain I wasn’t struck down by waggoners or impatient coachmen. Hawes saw me coming and ran.
The bloody man. I yelled to Bartholomew but had no idea whether he’d heard me. He’d spot me, I trusted, as he scanned the street. What had become of Taylor, I couldn’t say.
Hawes vanished. I willed myself to ignore the pain in my knee as I hurried to where I’d last seen him. I was rewarded when I found a small passageway between two buildings, down which Hawes was now speeding. These lanes sprang up in London now and again when houses that had been built in different eras didn’t quite connect. Or, the developer had deliberately left a space for night-soil men and necessary maintenance.
Hawes scuttled down the passageway, the space so narrow two people would not be able to walk abreast. The lane curved around into the shadow of the close-set, tall buildings, the spring sunshine not penetrating here.
Hawes reached a door. He banged on it, frantically rattling its handle as I bore down on him.
The door jerked open, and a man I didn’t recognize stepped out. He had a knife in his hand.
That knife went into the back of Mr. Hawes.
