“No.” Hawes’s angry disappointment convinced me he told the truth.
I filled in the gaps. “You sent for Mr. Arthur to help you. The Arlington is on his patch, as he calls it, and you, or its owner, pay him to keep thieves away. He dispatched a few of his lackeys to assist you in smuggling Mr. Pickett out of the house, bundled in blankets, perhaps, into a waiting coach. Then Pickett’s body was taken to Seven Dials.” I regarded Hawes in curiosity. “Why Seven Dials?”
A new voice answered me. “Because I knew His Bastardness was there that morning. Why’d ye think?”
Chapter 25
William Arthur stepped from the darkness into the candlelight. He was alone, gazing at me as affably as he’d done outside the opera house in Covent Garden.
I’d been speaking with his two ruffians somewhat fearlessly, because I’d realized they’d not been ordered to kill me. If they had, I’d already be dead.
But here was the man who gave the orders.
“You seized the opportunity,” I told him, pretending my heart wasn’t pounding with renewed apprehension. “Why not leave a dead man on Denis’s doorstep and maybe get him arrested for it? What a stroke of luck to have Denis find him at the right moment,” I finished without inflection. I was very certain now that Arthur had engineered everything.
“Not entirely luck.” Arthur confirmed my theory. “I knew Denis had gone to Seven Dials that night for an appointment—I know everything he does. We took the body there, wrapped in lap robes as you’ve guessed, and waited until his visitor was finished and things quieted. Then I had the dead bloke moved in front of his door. Denis came out very soon after—maybe he heard a noise, or maybe he sensed I was nearby. He’s like a cat, that one. He nearly tripped over this Pickett fellow, and a patroller appeared to catch him. Poor Denis has a lot of people following him, don’t he?” He chuckled.
“One of your lackeys alerted the patroller?” I asked. “I doubt they like to venture any further into Seven Dials than absolutely necessary.”
Arthur shrugged. “That is true—they avoid the place with pleasure. Took my man a few minutes to convince him to have a look. What is this token you’re going on about?”
“Mr. Pickett had won well at the races,” I said. It scarcely mattered now what Arthur knew. The betting token was beyond his reach. “He wanted his winnings so he could pay Denis to help him flee the country. But the token he got from Mr. Christie’s betting establishment hasn’t turned up. It was stolen from him by the murderer. Whom you saw, Mr. Hawes, am I correct?”
Hawes was silent for so long that I feared he’d lost consciousness. “Mayhap,” he answered at last.
“Which was another reason you sent for Mr. Arthur, wasn’t it? If the killer knew you’d seen him, he might come back for you.”
“Yes,” Hawes wheezed. “But he never did.”
I turned to Arthur as though we conversed in a drawing room at one of Donata’s soirees. “You didn’t go after the killer yourself, Mr. Arthur? In case he threatened Hawes?”
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t know who it was, and I don’t much care. Hawes is under our protection. We look after him. Don’t mean we go chasing murderers for the Runners.”
“Your men looked after Hawes so well that he needs a surgeon,” I pointed out.
“They were mistaken,” Arthur said easily. “He’ll be taken care of.” He assessed me slowly, the amiability in his eyes fading to something flinty. “The question is, what am I going to do about you?”
“A dilemma for you, I’m certain.” My mouth was dry, but I would not let myself moisten my lips. Betraying my fear would gain me nothing. “My wife comes from a very powerful family, and her first marriage was into another one. She will make certain that neither takes my death lightly.”
“I am pleased to hear they are so fond of you,” Arthur said. “I remember telling you, I make it my practice to deal only with those who have annoyed me. I don’t play petty games with their ladies and children. I can arrange things so none ever know what happened to you.”
I believed he could. Donata, Grenville, and Brewster would search for me, and perhaps even Pomeroy or Denis would too. Even if they found my body, none but Denis might tumble to who’d actually killed me.
I hadn’t heard of Mr. Arthur until a few days ago—I imagine he kept himself well in the shadows. Denis would realize what he’d done, and Brewster likely would as well, but they might both believe it prudent not to expose Arthur to the magistrates. They could always take private vengeance on him, but that would scarcely help me now.
“Mr. Hawes will be a witness,” I tried.
“Mr. Hawes will say nothing.”
Hawes made a feeble noise of agreement. He’d kept the secret of Pickett’s murderer, I had to acknowledge, letting Arthur fit Denis up for it. He’d do what Arthur told him.
“Then I will have to defend myself the best I can,” I said, as though resigned.
Arthur chuckled. “It is a happy day, Captain. I have decided not to kill you. As you say, your friends could make trouble for me, and I wager Denis himself would realize that I’d rid the world of you. He can be a bit testy about such things.”
“I am glad to hear it.” I kept my tone mild, but my limbs went watery with relief.
“However, I cannot simply send you out the door with my compliments.” Arthur removed his hands from his pockets. In one he held a cudgel. “I do want to give you something to remember me by. Perhaps it will teach you to stay well out of my business.”
