Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

Grenville was on his feet. “Good Lord.”

I reached down to heave Bennett to the nearest sofa. He was heavy for his size, and my leg hurt me. Grenville, after a stunned second, leapt to help.

Together, we got him stretched across a scroll-backed, silk-upholstered divan. I patted his cold cheek.

“Bennett.”

“Did you kill him?” Donata leaned in. “No, I see his chest moving.” She swung away, her skirts brushing my leg, and snatched up her reticule. She removed a small silver box, opened it on its hinge, and thrust it under Bennett’s nose.

The acrid odor of vinegar came to me. Bennett’s face screwed up, his eyes popped open, and he coughed.

Donata, satisfied, snapped the case shut.

Grenville returned with brandy. His absolute best was kept upstairs in reserve for him and very special guests. Even so, what was in the cup he offered Bennett now I considered much too good for the wretch.

Bennett drank, then coughed up most of the liquid, which Grenville caught on a handkerchief.

Bennett grabbed the linen cloth and applied it to his lips. “What … happened?” he asked around it.

Grenville gave his shoulder a pat. “You took a tumble to my sitting room floor. Are you hurt?”

“No.” Bennett blinked as he thought about it. “I do not believe so.” His gaze went to me. “Sir, did you say …”

“That Judith Hartman is dead, yes.” I had stepped back from the tableau and folded my arms. “Shall I go through it again for you?”

“No … no.” Bennett held up his hand. “Oh, my poor Judith. This is terrible. I assumed she had met an unfortunate end, but I did not dream …”

I watched him carefully. The flick of his eyes told me he lied.

“You knew,” I said, already tired of him. “That is why you married again so quickly, how you convinced the magistrates you should be allowed to wed. You knew she was dead.”

“No.” The word was sharp, full of shock, bordering on anger. “No, Captain, you misunderstand. I perjured myself, it is true. I never believed she was dead at all.”

It was Donata who interrupted the amazed silence that followed. She fixed Bennett with cold hauteur. “If you believed her alive, then why were you in such a hurry to marry the next lady?”

Bennett flushed. “I must confess to you. I am a warmhearted man.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “When Judith walked away and did not return, I was hurt, unhappy, grieved. I put it about that she must have died so no one would know she deserted me. Her father, you see, was very unhappy about her marrying me, and she began to feel that she wronged him. She wished to reconcile. I believed, when she did not come home that day, that she had returned to her family.”

“You would have soon learned otherwise,” I said sternly.

“I did. I missed her so much.” Bennett dabbed his cheeks with the brandy-stained handkerchief. “I finally went to the heart of the Hebrew area, and demanded to speak to Judith. Her father told me he hadn’t seen her. I did not believe him, of course.”

“So you went to court to have her declared dead?” He was not winning my respect with this story.

“I asked her neighbors, those who would speak to me. Her father did not allow her mother and sister to come down and listen to me—they might have told me the truth. But the Hebrews, they band together, and I was an outsider, the Englishman who’d stolen one of their own. The entire street more or less shoved me out and slammed the door, so to speak.”

“Her father told you the truth. She hadn’t come home.”

“I concluded that after a time,” Bennett admitted. “Judith was a sweet thing. She would have found some way to talk to me if she could, would have written at least. What I believed, gentlemen, your ladyship, was that her father had spirited her off somewhere—back to the Continent, out to the countryside to some other enclave of Hebrews, and she would never come back.”

He sighed. “When I met my Seraphina, we came to love each other deeply, and it broke my heart that I could not marry her. Hartman had metaphorically buried Judith—it hurt me to imagine what life she had—and so I hired a solicitor to help me declare Judith dead so that I could marry Seraphina. I wish you could have met her, Captain. You’d understand. A finer woman did not walk the world.”

“You were living with her,” I pointed out. “For a few years, I understand. Why the sudden need to have the banns read?”

Bennett blushed like a schoolboy. “We believed she was increasing. I did not want a child of mine to be born on the wrong side of the blanket. And so, I obtained a declaration that Judith was dead, and I married Seraphina. The banns were posted. It was in the newspapers. Hartman could have come forward, told the truth, stopped the marriage. He did not. I concluded he wanted nothing more to do with me—with me married again, Judith would be safe.” His face fell. “Only now you tell me …”

Tears trickled from his eyes, and he sniffled into the handkerchief.

“Mr. Bennett.”

At my tone, Bennett looked up, eyes puffy and red. “Sir?”

“I do not understand you. You loved Judith, and yet you quickly married another. And since have married a third woman.”

Bennett nodded. “Yes. My Maggie. The best woman in the world. You met her, Captain.”

“So why this outpouring of grief for Judith?” I asked him severely. “You had finished with her years ago. Fifteen years, to be precise.”

The handkerchief came up again. “Because all this time, I thought she was still alive. I had a notion that perhaps someday, we would meet once more. Spend our dotage together. Foolish, perhaps, but she was still in my heart.”

“What of your current wife? Your dear Maggie?”

Bennett went redder still. “You can scarce understand, Captain. I loved Judith. I love Maggie. My heart does not shirk from both.” He shook his head, eyes screwing up. “That scarce matters now. You’ve revealed that my poor, my dearest, sweetest Judith is …”

Grenville and I exchanged a glance. He expressed in one flick of his brows that he had no idea what to make of the man.

Bennett’s tears seemed real enough. He did everything to put forth a picture of a hapless gentleman caught in his own deeper feelings. Loved too much, grieved too hard. Pity me.

And yet, I understood why Woolwich did not like him. There was something wrong with the way Bennett spoke, begged us to understand him.

I felt as though I watched a play. The description of Bennett wandering into a Hebrew neighborhood and having every single one of them driving him, the Gentile, away, protecting their own, had the ring of the theatre to it. I knew that Londoners as a whole put the Hebrews into a box, and many men, as Brewster did, considered them “other” and disdained them collectively. Even so, I felt that Shakespeare or Sheridan could have written the scene.

I thought of Margaret Woolwich, good-natured but, as her father had claimed, not very intelligent. She’d have seen Bennett’s surface and been satisfied with it. I wondered if Judith had been satisfied, or come to her senses—too late.

Donata, Grenville, and I were too worldly, had known too many, to take Bennett’s character as absolute.

Donata, in particular, regarded him with blatant cynicism. “You see, Mr. Bennett,” she said, leaning down a little to pin him with her sharp stare. “We were of the mind that you had killed Judith. Struck her down with a poker or some such, so that you could marry your dear Seraphina.”

Bennett came off the sofa. I was in his way, but his bulk shoved me aside.

“I?” Again the drama, his hand pressed to his heart, his eyes wide with horror. “Dear lady, Judith was to me as the most precious jewel in all the world. I would never hurt her. Not one hair on her head.”

“Her hair was not in jeopardy,” Donata said in her acerbic way. “Her head was bashed in, rather, and she was pushed into the river.”

The slight widening of his eyes in shock was not feigned, I thought. “Please. How horrible. I cannot bear to think of it.”

Donata was remorseless. “It was a bit worse for Judith.”

“Please.” The handkerchief went to Bennett’s mouth again, and he shuddered.

I broke in. “If not you—can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Judith?”

Bennett lowered his hand. He was white about the mouth. “No, indeed. Everyone loved her.”

“Apparently not everyone,” I said dryly. “If her death distresses you so, please help us find her killer.”

“Oh. Ah, I see what you mean.” Bennett’s brows lowered as he thought. “She truly was well liked.”

“Yet, she angered her family and her friends by becoming a converso and marrying you.”

“That is true.” Bennett pondered again, the very image of a concerned gentleman trying to help. “Very true. I do hate to speak ill of any lady, but her sister, Devorah—she is a bitter woman.”

I gave him a neutral nod, not wanting to convey my own opinion of her. Devorah was indeed bitter.

“Her father and mother were quite angry as well,” Bennett said. “And of course, the young man who had hopes of becoming her husband.”

I hid my start. Neither Hartman nor Devorah had mentioned another suitor. “His name?” I asked.

“Let me think. I scarce remember. He was a Hebrew, of course, with one of their outlandish names. No, I have it—Stein. Yes. Itzak was his given name. I remember, because I told Judith I thought it a damned odd way to say Isaac.”

Bennett regarded us as though we should be amused with him, but we remained stone-faced.

“Anyone else?” I asked.

Bennett shrugged. “I have little idea, Captain. I am not good at this sort of thing. Her father would know.”

I would get her father to speak to me somehow. “If you happen to remember any more,” I said, “you will send word, won’t you?”

“Of course. Of course.” Bennett flashed me an appealing look. “Please discover who killed my Judith. I beg of you, Captain, bring this man to justice. If I can be of further help, I will, I assure you.”

Sincerity oozed from him. Grenville, who’d silently let Donata and me get on with interrogating him, finally spoke. “We shall do our best. Perhaps you should go home, Mr. Bennett. You have had a shock.”

“Yes, indeed,” Bennett said breathily. “I will return to my Margaret.” Another glance at us, another flush. “I assure you, gentlemen, your ladyship, that Margaret knows about Judith. And Seraphina. I keep nothing from her. She knows all of my unhappy past.”

During this speech, Grenville had moved for the bell, and Matthias opened the door after he’d let enough time lapse. No need to confirm that he’d indeed been listening.

Bennett, touching his breastbone again, prepared to make his exit.

“Seraphina,” I said.

Bennett stopped short, turning in confusion. “Pardon?”

I leaned on my walking stick. “You told us that you married Seraphina because you believed she was increasing. Is that how she passed away, if I might inquire? In childbed?”

Anger flashed in Bennett’s eyes—anger at me. “No, indeed. She was not increasing at all. It was a cancer.” He shrugged helplessly. “Nothing we could do.”

“I see.” I felt a pang of pity for Seraphina. “I am sorry.”

“Thank you.” Bennett took my sorrow to be for him, when in fact, I was only sorry for his wife. All of his wives. “Good evening, your ladyship. Mr. Grenville. Captain.”

Bennett’s tone when he said Captain betrayed his irritation with me. Robbed of his exit as the forlorn hero, he simply walked out of the room.

Matthias, retaining his icy hauteur, said, “This way, sir,” and led him down the stairs.

I moved to the window to watch Bennett emerge. A hackney waited, the driver lounging apathetically on the box.

Bennett snapped something to him, the driver gave him a weary look, then started the horses before Bennett was all the way inside the coach. Bennett fell the rest of the way to his seat, his curse audible, then Matthias’s gloved hand caught the door and slammed it shut.

I turned away to find my wife collapsed on another sofa, a goblet of brandy to her lips. She downed it in a practiced way and clicked the glass to the table.

“That was distasteful,” she said, and I knew she did not mean the drink.

“Indeed,” Grenville answered. He doctored himself with brandy as well, and poured a goblet for me. “Not a man who endears himself to other gentlemen.”

“Only to ladies, it seems,” Donata observed.

She sent a glance at me, knowing my own propensity for preferring the company of the fairer sex. I prayed I was not so horrible about it as Andrew Bennett.

“Do you think he killed her?” Grenville asked me.

I took the brandy he offered, poured it down my throat, and answered once the liquid had warmed me. “I know this—if my beloved wife had left the house one afternoon and did not return, I would shift heaven and earth to discover what had become of her.”

Donata’s wry expression faded. I’d begun to do just that the other night, when my dread that I’d lost her had overwhelmed me.

I held Donata’s gaze with mine as I continued. “Even if she did not wish to come home with me again, I would not rest until I determined that she was safe and well.”

“Yes,” Donata said. “You would do just that.”

Grenville sat down heavily next to Donata. “As would I,” he said. “As would most gentlemen who love and esteem their wives. Not be quick to dismiss her so I could marry another.”

“And yet.” I sank to a chair, cradling my empty glass. “People do go missing, meet with an accident, are never seen again. He assumed she’d been taken in by her family, locked away from him. He could not fight her entire clan to wrest her out again.”

“By law, he could,” Donata pointed out, with another glance at me. “A wife belongs to the husband entirely. She ceases to be.”

“Exactly,” Grenville said. “So why did he not use the full force of the law to march to her father’s house and drag her away? They married legally … we assume. I will check into that. But if all were aboveboard, and Bennett had the law on his side, why not use that?”

“Because Judith had no money,” I suggested. “Her father made clear she’d get nothing from him, no help, nothing in a will or trust. Dear Seraphina brought him several thousand pounds.”

“The question remains,” Donata said. “Did he kill her?”

Chapter Twenty-One

I wanted to shout a definite, Yes!

“He was genuinely surprised when he heard Judith was dead,” I said, unhappy. “The swoon was not false, nor was his shock.”

“He might have bashed her over the head and walked away,” Donata suggested in a calm voice. “And not realized he’d killed her. Struck out in anger when she refused to come home with him.”

“Possibly,” I said. “But the surgeon was fairly certain she’d died instantly, or nearly so, from the blow. I hesitate to conclude his innocence, but I am afraid he might be.”

“He is a bad lot,” Grenville said. “I cannot put my finger on why, but I know he is.”

Donata said, “He tries too hard to be ingratiating. What was it you said Woolwich called him? Unctuous. He is certainly that.”

“He is,” I agreed. “I also believe he knew bloody well that his second wife was dying. Perhaps a doctor had told him of the cancer. He suddenly made plenty of effort to have Judith declared dead so he could marry Seraphina. Just in time to take control of her money.”

Grenville tapped his goblet. “Why did Mr. Hartman not fight him? When the courts officially said Judith was deceased? Surely he’d have an opinion.”

“Unless he already knew she was dead,” Donata said coolly.

“I have a different theory,” Grenville said. “To Mr. Hartman, she was already dead in his mind. Judith had abandoned him, her family, her religion, to take up with this knave. If Bennett had her made officially dead, that would enable Hartman to be finished with her.”

I shook my head slowly. “You are not a father, Grenville. If my daughter ran away with a rogue, even if I disowned her in my anger, if she wanted to leave said rogue, I’d welcome her back with open arms. I would not let the world think her dead, but do all in my power to get her free of him.”

“But Hartman perhaps did not have the power to free her from Bennett,” Donata suggested. “If he were insanely wealthy, he’d not have as much trouble, but he is a modest shopkeeper. If Judith were declared dead, he would no longer have to worry about convincing Bennett to give her a divorce, and funding said divorce, and could keep her home with him.”

“Our speculation becomes meaningless,” I pointed out. “Judith did die, Hartman did not know; Bennett did not know, or so he claims. I was not present when Devorah found out about her sister’s death, so I cannot say whether she knew. She was very angry when she came to see me—at her father, at Bennett. At me.”

“Perhaps she met Judith,” Donata said. “Quarreled with her, struck her. Not meaning to, possibly. Panics, pushes her into the water, runs home. Keeps the secret all these years.”

“Can someone keep a secret that long?” I wondered.

Grenville said dryly, “If one is to be hanged for that secret, certainly.” He rose. “The fact remains that someone killed her, and we are no closer to finding out who. We agree we do not like Mr. Bennett, but that does not mean he is a murderer.”

“A careful man, that is a certainty,” Donata said. She too got to her feet. “We shall have to find out more about him—which Gabriel is excellent at doing. He shakes people until they tell him what he wishes to know.”

I had risen when she did, and I went to her, arranging her shawl around her shoulders. I liked that I now had the privilege of doing so. “Then I will shake them,” I said.

***

I accompanied Donata to the supper ball later that evening as we had agreed. I wore my regimentals, as other military men did, though I was seeing fewer and fewer as the years went on. I felt at home, however, in the familiar dark blue coat with white facings, silver braid on my chest and shoulders, and my deep blue breeches and high boots.

The ball was held in a house in Mount Street, home to one of Donata’s many friends, Lady Courtland, wife of an earl.

A card room had been set up for gentlemen who had no interest in dancing. I usually made for these first thing, now that I had a little more in my pockets to cover the wagers. Tonight, however, I felt the need to stay by Donata’s side.

She did not appear to mind. As a couple, we wandered through the crowd, greeting acquaintances and friends. Donata liked being unconventional, though I knew we’d be laughed at for clinging so close to each other.

“I’m happy you’ve come tonight,” Donata said to me, giving my arm a squeeze. “Not only does it clear my mind from that horrible interview with Mr. Bennett, but you can meet the young men who will be at Gabriella’s come-out next week.”

I had already met a few, and I thoroughly disapproved of them, for no reason at all.

They were paraded before me now, one by one. Not so blatantly—Donata knew how to handle people.

They were Edward Clayton, Emmett Garfield, Geoffrey Kent, and Daniel Marsden.

All four were sons of gentlemen with respectable estates and enough means to stay the Season in London without ruination. Geoffrey Kent was looking to begin a political career, and all four were primed to take over their father’s estates when the time came, and in fact, helped run them now.

They were not aristocrats, though Clayton was distantly connected to an earl’s family, but landed gentlemen, whose fathers owned lucrative estates.

They were, in fact, of the exact means and station in life that I was and my father had been. The difference was that my father had squandered all the income and let the house fall to ruin while these gentlemen’s parents were more responsible.

I’d met Kent and Clayton before. They dressed well but not flashily, were respectful to me and attentive to the ladies, and did not play for exorbitant stakes in the card room. I was trying very hard to find fault with them. Clayton, for instance, spoke with a nasally tone.

David Marsden had even fewer faults that I could discern, much to my irritation. He reminded me a bit of Leland Derwent—very polite, deferential to me and Donata without fawning. He was well educated and seemed to have actually studied something at university—he was interested in science and mathematics as well as ancient texts.

I was happy to meet Emmett Garfield, because here was a man I could actively dislike.

First, he was too handsome. The other three looked like what they were—sprigs of old English families, stretching into the distant past. They had fair hair, pudgy faces, and chins that spoke of too much inbreeding. Garfield had dark hair, a hint of the Continent about him, and was broad of shoulder and taut from riding and boxing. He enjoyed sport, he confessed, more than indoor activities.

He was also cocky. Garfield bowed courteously to me but his look was sly, I thought—he was assessing me as a potential father-in-law.

If he married Gabriella, he’d be connected to a wealthy viscount through me, and no doubt would try to use his charms to have young Peter doing whatever he wanted. The sparkle in his eyes told me Garfield knew exactly what I thought.

“Captain,” he said, with the right amount of deference.

I shook his hand as politely as I could. “Mr. Garfield.”

Donata had moved from my side to speak to friends, the feathers in her headdress swaying, so I could not count upon her to warm the air with conversation.

“You are from Norfolk,” Garfield observed, as I groped for something to say. “Lovely country. I have visited its lanes on an idle day after Newmarket. The draining projects have made the farms there quite rich.”

“Not always,” I answered. “There was a terrible yield a few years ago, when the summer never warmed.”

“Yes, I remember. It affected us all, but it was particularly bad there, I heard. But I understand your farm does not produce at all?”

“Not at the moment,” I said. “I will return there this year and begin improvements.”

“Very wise.” The young man had the audacity to wink. Mr. Garfield leaned closer to me. “I have heard it remarked upon, sir, that you came from nowhere, and now nearly are lord of somewhere—such was your skill.”

“If you have heard such a thing,” I snapped, “the speaker is very impertinent.”

“I know, and I told him so.” Garfield’s smile was warm and engaging, which made me dislike him more. “But you must admit, you were uncommon clever. No one had ever heard of you, and now, here you are, the constant companion of Mr. Grenville, and married to one of the most prominent ladies of the ton.”

So also had the anonymous letter-writer indicated.

My eyes narrowed as I wondered whether this young idiot was the letter-writer himself. He liked to ride, was athletic, and similar sentiments were coming from his mouth.

“Do not worry, Captain,” Mr. Garfield went on. “I defend you to all comers.”

“See that you do,” I answered, my lips stiff.

I turned away from him—politely; I would not embarrass Donata by punching him outright—and walked toward the card room, not happy.

I could not speak to Donata again until we were on our way home. At supper we’d been seated far from each other—I had been conversing with another lady when the bell for supper rang, and as politeness dictated, I escorted her into the dining room and attended her for the meal.

The food was quite good, but my appetite was taken away by imagining the four young gentlemen dancing with my daughter at her come-out ball on Tuesday next. After that, they’d be welcomed to our house to court her.

Then marrying her, being responsible for her happiness. Food turned to dust in my mouth.

After supper, dancing had recommenced. Forced to be a wallflower by my injury, I watched Donata join sets and enjoy herself. She loved dancing, and was partnered by many old friends.

I watched my wife laughing, her hair shining as she turned under the candlelight of the chandeliers, her green velvet gown hugging her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace.

Most of our acquaintance had been very surprised that Donata and I had made a match. I knew they assumed I’d want a plump, sweet-tempered homebody, whose chatelaine clanked with keys as she looked after me and her house, always ready with a soothing pat and a remedy to fix any ill.

However, I found in Donata not a wife to wait upon me, but a companion. I could speak to her on any topic, and she had the wit and interest to respond. She understood me as no other woman had—even more deeply sometimes than I wanted her to.

By the time we reached our carriage to return us to South Audley Street, I was tired, disgruntled, and ready to lay my head on her bosom.

I sat rigidly upright, however, on the journey home, anger in my heart.

“Emmett Garfield,” I said when Donata had settled in beside me with a happy but weary sigh. “Why was he chosen as a potential husband for Gabriella?”

“Mr. Garfield?” Donata looked at me in surprise, then she groaned softly and stretched one foot in the leather shoe she wore to move between engagements. Her maid carried her satin, beaded dancing slippers in a special box. “He comes from one of the best families and has a sensible business head. He would never bankrupt Gabriella, and will run his estate well.”

“I do not like him,” I said. “He is supercilious.” Arrogant, high-handed, cocksure … I could continue for some time.

Donata waved her hand, and a drooping feather brushed her cheek. “He is harmless. A bit full of himself, yes, but that will ease as he becomes older and more jaded by life. His father was the same way, Aline tells me, but is now the wisest of gentlemen.”

“A son does not always become the twin of his father,” I said—in my case, thank God. “I would like you to cross Mr. Garfield from your guest list.”

Her eyes widened. “Indeed, I will not. To do so would be to enrage his family, who are old friends of Aline’s. I agree—Mr. Garfield grated upon me when I first met him, but when you get past his feeble attempts at wit, he is quite personable.”

“If you will forgive me, he is also good looking,” I said coldly. “Which does nothing for me, but might cause you and Aline, and Gabriella, to overlook his defects.”

Donata sent me a pitying look. “Absolute nonsense. I do not judge a man’s character on his looks. How foolish.”

“You might not, but Gabriella? She is young, naive, has rusticated in France …”

“Yes, the French are known for their celibate ways.” Donata put her hand on my chest. “Do not worry so, Gabriel. If I thought him a bad sort, I would never have invited him, old friends of Aline’s or no. He is nothing like Mr. Bennett, trust me.”

“But he might have written the letters.” I poured out my worry, describing the conversation I’d had with him.

“Hmm.” Donata’s brows drew together. “I will have to think about that. But admit, Gabriel, that what the letter-writer claims is nothing more than what ill-willed members of my set have said. Or what journalists have speculated. All are baffled that I esteem you so much, and conclude that I must be a halfwit, bedazzled by a fraud. But as we are not Margaret Woolwich and Mr. Bennett, I refuse to be angered by such things. Mr. Garfield is only repeating what he has heard.”

“That may be,” I conceded, though I would take it upon myself to find out. “But I still don’t like him.”

Donata smoothed my cheek, and rested her head on my shoulder as the carriage swayed slowly home. “My dear, you will not like any gentleman who looks at Gabriella. Even when she is in her dotage.”

I had to agree that this was true.

***

I dreamed of Judith again that night, even though Donata slept beside me. In this dream, she looked like her sister, Devorah, prim, cool, unforgiving. Again I saw her coming toward me on a street, again, when she reached me, she deteriorated into bones.

I tossed, woke sweating, and left Donata’s bed so I would not wake her. I spent the rest of the night alone in my bedchamber, staring at the canopy, until exhaustion overcame me, and I slept, this time without dreams.

In the morning I journeyed in a hackney to Bow Street and once again looked for Pomeroy. Today, I found him in.

“Pleasant to see ye, Captain!” he boomed down the stairs as a patroller motioned me to go up. “Hear Thompson has you poring over a bag of bones. I’ll wager you know who they belong to, how he died, who killed him, and what he had for breakfast that morning.”

“Not quite,” I said as I reached him.

I glanced around for Spendlove, certain that Pomeroy’s bellowing would tell the man all he needed to know.

“You’ve come to ask for my help, have you?” Pomeroy continued at the top of his voice. “What can I do that the great Captain Lacey cannot?”

His blue eyes twinkled, and his grin was wide.

“You can keep my inquiries to yourself for one. May we speak in private?”

“Of course!” Pomeroy gestured me into a small room at the top of the stairs, one I’d been in before. Here was a table and a few chairs, shelves of ledgers and papers, a place to write up reports.

“The dead woman’s name is Judith Hartman,” I said, seeing no reason to keep it secret anymore. Thompson would tell Pomeroy that if he asked—indeed would have written it into an official record. “This is Thompson’s case, so please respect that.”

“Now, what sort of Runner would I be if I pinched convictions off others?” The glint in Pomeroy’s eye told me he’d do just that whenever he could. He liked Thompson, however. Respected him.

“I want to know two things,” I said. “One, if there have been any complaints made about Mr. Andrew Bennett—who seems to lose wives in convenient fashion. Two, if Miss Hartman’s disappearance was reported at the time she went missing—about fifteen years ago—how would I find out? I want to paint a picture of her last days, but the people in her life are being singularly uncooperative.”

“Couldn’t be you’re putting their backs up, could it?” Pomeroy’s good humor returned. “Haven’t heard a word, to my knowledge, about this Bennett chap, or Miss Hartman. Fifteen years, eh? Before my time. Fifteen years ago, I was rushing around following your orders.”

This was so. By then we’d left France, the Peace of Amiens evaporating, and gone back to England for training. Long days reviewing troops, drilling, solving petty problems of soldiers weary of waiting for things to happen. I’d tried to bury myself in routine to take away the fiery pain of losing my wife and daughter.