I told Brewster what Denis had related as the coachman trundled along Holborn to Drury Lane. Brewster only shook his head, as though agreeing with Robbie and the other men that His Nibs was in more danger than he supposed.
We turned from Drury Lane to narrow Russel Street and went along it to the main square of Covent Garden and its market. Denis’s coachman halted just inside the square as promised, to the consternation of a few carters trying to transport their wares through.
Brewster also had no intention of accompanying me further, and I slid to the pavement alone. I noticed the carters recognize the coach, close their mouths over foul words, and swerve around the motionless carriage.
I kept rooms off Russel Street in a tiny alley called Grimpen Lane. If the rain continued, I’d consider stopping in them after I sought Pomeroy. I always kept a fire laid and kindling waiting, and the landlady’s strong coffee would not be unwelcome.
I was close enough to Bow Street that I could walk there without much trouble. Five minutes and much soggy rain later, I entered the magistrate’s tall house, which encompassed numbers three and four.
The main corridor was full this morning, with the magistrate still hearing cases. Minor offenders queued to enter the courtroom—those accused of major offenses would be held in a cell across the street.
Denis’s case must have been one of the first heard this morning. Spendlove would have insisted, of course, plus Denis’s dangerous reputation likely inspired the magistrate to move him on as quickly as possible.
It was not difficult to track down Milton Pomeroy, my former sergeant turned Bow Street Runner. His voice boomed at me soon after I’d entered the house.
“Well met, Captain. Have you come about the arrest of Mr. Denis? Quite a coup for Spendlove, ain’t it? Damn the man.”
Chapter 4
Pomeroy strode through the interested crowd toward me, as big and bluff as he’d ever been. His very blond hair was starting to thin and his stomach to further expand, but he’d looked the same wading through the chaos of a battlefield, greeting me cheerily amidst the carnage.
“Is Spendlove here?” I asked Pomeroy.
He bellowed a laugh. “Not a bit of it. He’s grilling his patrollers and searching for witnesses so he can put together a tight case. He’s not letting this fish slip away.”
“I hoped he could tell me—or the magistrate could—exactly what happened?”
The men and women who awaited their hearings, dressed in everything from rags to finery, wanted to know as well, based on the way they focused on us.
“I can do that, Captain,” Pomeroy said with confidence. “Spendlove won’t breathe a syllable, but I’m chummy with one of his patrollers. Come with me. I’ll regale you with the entire sordid tale.”
Our listeners melted away in disappointment as Pomeroy headed for the stairs. I slipped a penny to the boy I thought the most destitute-looking before I followed. The lad stuck out his tongue at me then winked, the penny disappearing into his grubby coat.
I trailed Pomeroy up the stairs, my leg aching from trudging through cold rain and climbing into and out of coaches. I’d vowed to never become the man who couldn’t stray from his house without a valet or other servant to steady him, but I might have to swallow my pride if I continued to have such days.
Pomeroy led me past the magistrate’s office to a room that was little more than a closet crammed with shelves of boxes and sheaves of papers. Pomeroy shoved his bulk inside this and seated himself at a small desk, waving me to the rickety chair next to it.
“Busy morning.” Pomeroy stretched out his long legs, crowding mine as I sat down. “I and my fellows will have to work hard to find someone who brings in as high a reward as James Denis. I raise my glass to Spendlove. He’s a right bastard, but he’s determined, I must say.”
“From what I understand, he did not witness Denis actually stabbing the gentleman,” I said, breaking through Pomeroy’s annoying good-naturedness. “Spendlove only saw Denis standing in the street with a knife in his hand.”
Pomeroy shrugged. “Amounts to the same thing.”
“Not entirely,” I said.
“Does to Spendlove. To be sure, he’ll have a hell of a time gathering the evidence. He wants an unquestionable case and a judge who will convict. No doubt he’ll have it all in the end.”
Pomeroy’s confidence in Spendlove contrasted sharply with Denis’s cool assurance that he’d soon be cleared and released. I had to wonder why Denis was so certain he’d find his way out of his predicament, when I knew Spendlove would be merciless.
“Who was Mr. Pickett?” I asked. “From what I understand, not a usual denizen of Seven Dials.”
“Indeed, no. Seems a respectable gent. Recently inherited a small house in Bedfordshire from an aged uncle or cousin or some such. Other than that, we don’t know much about Mr. Pickett. A complete stranger to any I’ve asked.”
Pomeroy was thorough in his own way, so I had no doubt he’d interrogated anyone he could find about Mr. Pickett.
“Was he married?” I asked. “Who is his family? This aged relation, for instance?”
“Don’t know. Spendlove and I have patrollers walking about with a drawing of the man’s face, asking if any know him. He had no handy letters about his person addressed to someone we could speak to, no bill from his tailor, no book he’d taken from a lending library. Had five shillings in his pocket and a scrap of paper with the address of Mr. Denis’s house in Curzon Street.”
