The men in the room sent me angry looks. “Leave off, Captain,” one declared. “None of us would have.” This man’s name was Robbie, and once upon a time, he’d shoved his huge body in front of me to keep me from having a go at Denis.
“I am only citing possibilities.” I knew that even here, deep in the bowels of Newgate prison, I wasn’t safe from Denis’s ruffians if they took against me. “The alternative is a thief entering the house and stealing a single knife from your desk. Why would they?”
“To fit up Mr. Denis for it,” Robbie continued. “Why else?”
“Why else, indeed.” I nodded at him. “Which returns me to the question, who was Mr. Pickett? Why was he in Seven Dials to be murdered at the convenient moment? A man you’d never heard of?”
“I did not say I had not heard of him,” Denis corrected me. “I said I’d never seen him before, which is true. Mr. Bernard Pickett wrote to me about a week ago, asking for my help. He wanted to meet, and I set the appointment with him for yesterday evening, in Curzon Street. Other than that, I have no knowledge of him. I only learned the dead man was Mr. Pickett when the magistrate told me.”
“So, there is a connection,” I said heavily. “That is unfortunate.”
“I have many witnesses to state I never met the man. He did not turn up for the appointment in Curzon Street. I concluded that he had decided not to pursue the matter, whatever it was, as sometimes happens. I went about my business and thought no more of it.”
A person might well have misgivings about dealing with a man of Denis’s reputation. I certainly had at one time, and still did, though I’d come to realize what I could trust Denis with and what I could not.
Denis, however, had the annoying habit of withholding as much information as possible in any given situation, from even those closest to him. A wise habit for him, but a difficult one for me.
“What sort of help did Mr. Pickett require?” I asked.
Denis met my gaze squarely, which meant he’d choose what details to give me. “He did not tell me the extent of it. I assumed he’d explain during his appointment.”
“Why did you agree to meet him, in particular?” I went on. “You must receive dozens of letters asking for your assistance. You could not possibly answer each one. Why him?”
“Hundreds a year, yes,” Denis said. “Many inquiring, some demanding. Mr. Pickett asked politely and offered a high fee. I decided to speak to him and see if he could indeed afford such a sum.”
“You took him on based on whether he could pay the fee?” I heard my incredulous tone and tried unsuccessfully to curb it. “Regardless of what he wished you to do for him?”
“I agreed to meet him based on the fee,” Denis said with a touch of irritation. “Whether I pursued the matter for him remained to be seen. I do select my clients with some care.”
I forced myself to concede the point. “It would be helpful if I could read his letter. Unless you destroyed it?”
“Gibbons files my correspondence. If you call at the Curzon Street house, he will give you what you require. You will likely find it no more enlightening than I did.”
I was surprised he agreed to let me read the letter, by which I concluded that it would not tell me much.
“Perhaps you could write a note to Mr. Gibbons instructing him to let me read it. He might not hand over a letter based on my word alone.”
Denis gave me a small nod and neatly tore off a blank part of the paper in front of him. He opened a drawer in the desk to extract pen, ink bottle, and a blotter—his lackeys had provided him with everything.
He dipped his pen, scribbled a sentence, blotted the ink, and handed me the sheet. The message was brief, similar to the ones he wrote to me.
Give Captain Lacey the letters he asks for. Denis.
He’d fully intended for me to read the line, or he’d have hidden it from me. I made certain the ink was completely dry before folding the paper and tucking it into my pocket.
“I know you wish to ferret out a solution,” Denis said. “But there is no need. As I say, I will be cleared of this charge before long. Others are working on the matter.”
The men in the room exchanged another round of dark looks, not as optimistic as their employer.
“I truly don’t believe you killed him,” I said to Denis. “So, there remains the question of who did, and why?”
“Seven Dials is an insalubrious part of the city,” Denis answered. “A middle-class stranger would be lucky to reach its other side unscathed. He met with misfortune, which happens every day. Will you look into all murders in the area?”
My jaw tightened. “It is different when a murder was done with a knife taken specially from your house for the purpose. Was Pickett robbed? A middle-class gent would be lucky, as you say, to retain even the clothes on his back in that rookery.”
“This I do not know,” Denis said. “You will have to ask your Runner friend.”
“He had all his gear,” Robbie interrupted. “Nothing taken, I heard one of the patrollers say.”
