Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

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“There would be records,” I said.

“Aye, that there would. Do you mean you want to root around in papers fifteen years old? If I can even put my hands on them?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Unless someone here remembers the exact case.”

“London is a busy place,” Pomeroy said. “I imagine many things happened here in 1803.”

“Where would I find these records?” I persisted.

Pomeroy let out a sigh. “Follow me, Captain. I don’t know if you’ll find what you need, but if anyone can, it will be you.”

When I saw the room where the records were kept, however, I nearly gave up the slender hope of my idea.

The chamber below street level to which Pomeroy led me was crammed with shelves, tables, boxes, desks, cabinets—all of them full of papers, ledgers, books, and sheets filled with fine-lined writing.

“Good Lord,” I said.

“Records kept since 1724.” Pomeroy proudly waved a hand at them. “Clerk’s records, warrants, court records, every decision by the magistrate, accounts … if someone thought it worth writing down, they wrote it down. Me, I’ve never had to look for anything beyond a few years ago.”

“I see.” My mouth was dry. “Is there some sort of organization?”

Pomeroy shrugged. “I usually have a clerk fetch information for me. But fifteen years ago … Well, poke around as you like, Captain. If anyone objects, tell them to come find me.”

He left me to it. Glumly, I pulled a ledger from the first shelf. There wasn’t much light down here, and I peered at the crowded page until I realized it was records for this house’s poor box.

There was a reason I’d taken well to fighting but never aspired to an administrative post. Brandon had always thought I should be groomed to be an aide-de-camp, but I was not one for records, papers, and the tedious details of army life.

I was much better at yelling at men and keeping them safe. Reading, in my opinion, should be confined to entertaining histories, scientific discoveries, and well-told stories.

I’d brought Bartholomew with me today. I sent for him now, and he looked around with the same dismay.

“Bleedin’ hell, sir. Why would people want to write so much down?”

“Court records are important,” I said. “A way to ensure that judges and magistrates remain honest.”

“Does it work?” Bartholomew asked, his tone dubious.

“Who knows? Fortunately for me, I have become acquainted with a gentleman who might be able to unravel the puzzle for me. Will you go to Cornhill in the City and ask Mr. Molodzinski to join me here?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

By the time Molodzinski arrived, I had at least found a section of the chamber containing records near a year I was looking for.

I had told myself that a report of Judith’s disappearance might not exist at all, or be buried in a cubbyhole in another magistrate’s house, such as the one at Whitechapel. But Bow Street was sort of a collective whirlpool, since it was the first house to put together the Runners. If a report had been made, I guessed I’d find a copy of it here.

Molodzinski looked around at the chaos, his dark eyes shining.

“Ah,” he said. “I can see why you sent for an expert.”

“I’m looking for any record of Judith Hartman’s disappearance being reported. Any mention of her at all, actually. Or any information about her husband, Andrew Bennett. I would like to see a record of Miss Hartman’s marriage to Bennett as well—I’ll have to visit the vicar who married them.”

So muttering to myself, I picked over another ledger. Molodzinski said nothing at all but quietly went to work, and soon assessed what was what.

We never found anything about Bennett—no mention of him at all. However, after another hour, Molodzinski ferreted out a note in a book, written in the cramped hand of a long-since-gone patroller.

The pages recorded his reports of 19 May, 1803. I read through it, picturing the man’s face screwing up as he struggled with spelling.

Reported missing, Miss Hartman, daughter of a Hebrew. Last seen in Aldgate High Street, not far from the great sinigog, according to Miss Devra Hartman, sister. Both are daughters of Mr. Joseph Hartman of the Strand.

“The significant thing,” I said, peering at the note, “besides his misspellings, is that there is no mention of Mr. Andrew Bennett. She’s styled as Miss Hartman. A spinster, not a wife.”

“Perhaps the elder Miss Hartman did not consider her sister married,” Molodzinski speculated. “Miss Hartman and her father strike me as those clinging to traditional ways.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “I consider myself very modern, very free thinking, though I have no intention of converting to the Anglo religion, thank you very much. But Hartman, though he wears the clothes of an Englishman, he keeps his beard and is a traditionalist at heart, especially when it comes to his daughters.”

“It seems Devorah agrees with him,” I said. “So she noticed Judith gone. How, I wonder, if they were estranged? Had she planned to meet with her?”

“For that, you’ll have to ask her. But wait, I have found another mention.”

A similar report, in another hand, had been written five days later. Missing, Mrs. Andrew Bennett. Last seen, Aldgate High Street Wednesday, 16 May. Told to me by Mr. Itzak Stein, a Hebrew.

“Mr. Stein again,” I said, excitement stirring. “The man who hoped to be Judith’s husband.” I copied out the reports into my silver-cased notebook then snapped the case shut. “I believe I will pay a visit to Mr. Stein.” I paused. “As soon as I have an address.”

“Not today, you won’t,” Molodzinski said. “It’s Saturday. If he’s anything like Hartman and his elder daughter, he will be at the Great Synagogue, muttering and praying.”

Saturday was considered the Sabbath among the Hebrews. This fact had come up a time or two in the army, but then, most of us had not stopped battles or marches for any sort of holy day. Hebrews had to pretend at least to belong to the official church to take the oath to join the army, but there had been ways around that.

I looked Molodzinski up and down. “You do not seem to be there with him.”

Molodzinski shook his head, self-deprecating. “Me, I am a sinner and not so pious. My mother is no longer alive to scold me, and so I rush to help you in your investigations instead of spending my day in contemplation and study.”

I slid my notebook into my pocket and took up my hat. “If Mr. Stein is at the synagogue, then I will take myself there and wait for him to come out.”

“Will you? Do you know what he looks like?”

I deflated. “No, I don’t. But perhaps Hartman will point him out to me.”

“Hartman might shoot you on the spot. Never mind.” Molodzinski pulled on his gloves. “I will go with you, ask about Mr. Stein for you, and prevent you having Hartman’s fist up your nose. Or his eldest daughter’s—she sounds formidable.”

“She is,” I agreed.

“Then it is settled. I will protect you from the wrath of Miss Hartman.”

Chuckling, Molodzinski led the way from the cellar back to the main floor of the Bow Street house.

Outside, the clouds had gathered to threaten more rain, but it was still dry, warm, and a bit sticky.

Later this summer, once the Season was officially over, we would repair first to Norfolk to see the ongoing work on my ancestral home, then visit Donata’s family in Oxfordshire. We’d journey from there to Hampshire to the Breckenridge estate, which I’d never seen. I looked forward to cool country breezes and long rides on horseback, taking my ease from the crowded city.

The crowded city now pressed upon us. On Saturday, those of the Christian faith were working, hurrying, shopping, readying themselves for their one day of rest a week.

I could not censure Molodzinski for not attending his house of worship today, because I, cradle-born to the C of E, spent my Sundays with my feet up at home, not racing to the nearest church to listen to the vicar’s hour-long sermon.

The airless hackney lurched through streets at a slow pace, taking us too near the river for my taste. Molodzinski pointedly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and flapped it in front of his nose. That appendage was less swollen now, as was his eye, though his bruises from Denis’s men were still dark.

We emerged into the City and made for Cornhill, passing Molodzinski’s place of work, and through Leadenhall into Aldgate, east of Aldgate High Street, where Judith had last been seen.

A turning from Aldgate, called Duke’s Place, housed what was known as the Great Synagogue. Another synagogue stood further up the road—Bevis Marks—but Molodzinski confidently steered me into Duke’s Place. What the difference was between the two I did not wish to profess my ignorance and ask.

I had passed this synagogue whenever I had dealings in this part of London, but aside from a few curious glances, I’d never given it much thought. The building was quietly unpretentious in the Adam style, with flights of steps leading to an arched portico, above which were many-paned windows.

Apparently I could enter as a visitor, and as I moved into the interior, I removed my hat.

“Heads remained covered, Captain,” Molodzinski said in a quiet voice. Startled, I replaced my hat on my head, feeling odd to do so, and followed him in.

The service had already begun. Molodzinski slipped us to a bench in the back, and we sat quietly.

I looked around in wonder. We were in a lofty room that rose three stories above us, many arched windows letting in soft daylight. As was the outside, the inside was subdued yet beautifully elegant. The walls were pale, the flat corbeled ceiling softly arched around its edges. Enormous chandeliers hung from this ceiling, and I amused myself trying to count the candles in their many tiers.

In the center of the house was a sort of platform, under another chandelier, enclosed by a railing, where men stood to read or chant. Beyond them, on the far end of the room was an arched recess, flanked by columns and encircled by a low gold screen. No one went near this place, which had been treated with the reverence of an altar, but I knew it was not one. Perhaps it was the place where they kept the holy books, but I wasn’t certain.

Brewster had been correct when he’d said that the men and women were separated for the service. On the ground floor, where Molodzinski and I sat, were only men. I looked up at the gallery that encircled the first floor to see the ladies sitting behind a railing, their colorful gowns welcome hues in this place of white.

A few of the women peered curiously down at me, likely wondering who was this stiff Anglo in their midst. I spied Devorah Hartman among them, but she did not look at me—I could not tell whether she’d noticed me at all. She had her head bowed, her gaze downward, her eyes possibly closed.

I looked for Mr. Hartman among the men, but there were too many here today for me to distinguish him.

In the middle platform, a man—a cantor, I supposed—began to sing.

A curious thing happened. I could not understand one word of his chant, sung in a clear, beautiful tenor, but I felt peace steal over me. Around me, heads were bowed, men studying books in their hands or with eyes closed in prayer.

In the light, the calm, the air, cooled by the openness of the space, the thick walls protectively between me and the noise and stink of the city, I slipped into a state of great ease. My limbs relaxed; the nagging pain that was my constant companion, fell away.

I floated on the music, lifted by a service I could not begin to follow.

My understanding mattered little, I realized. I’d watched natives of India kneel in reverence before gleaming statues of ancient gods, offering food that could ill be spared, or flowers, or simply pressing their hands together and bowing in prayer. I’d seen Mohammedans in the north of India likewise lost in blissful prayer, bent to the floor on their carpets.

It didn’t matter, I’d realized then, that the precepts of our religions were different. These men around me believed in the same God I did, even if they did not believe the Lord Jesus Christ to be the son of that God. We were lifted together by the beauty of the voice that sang the words, the sweet air that floated around us, and the light of the many candles.

Or perhaps I was simply swept up in the beauty and serenity of it all. I understood why men became religious—if I could feel this ease, this sensation of being cradled in gentle warmth all the time, I would abandon my life and become a hermit and a mystic.

I could imagine what Donata would have to say about that. The image of her made me smile, and give up my sudden inclination to monkhood. I settled in and simply enjoyed the service.

I did not want this tranquility to come to an end, but finally, Molodzinski indicated it was time to leave. I rose with the others and filed out of the lovely hall into daylight.

The sounds of the City came back to me, and unfortunately, the smell. I again thought of country breezes with regret.

Molodzinski was speaking to a knot of men, greeting them, laughing when they expressed surprise to see him there. He introduced me, and I shook hands with several gentlemen, who welcomed me politely. As we exchanged pleasantries, one of the men gestured to another walking out into the courtyard.

“There’s Mr. Stein,” he said, and beckoned him over.

Stein was of an age with Andrew Bennett and Devorah. They would have all been very young when Judith died, in their early twenties. Though some men did make their careers and fortunes by the time they were twenty-two, looking back from my decrepit age of forty, I knew how stupidly childish one who’d just come into his majority could be.

Itzak Stein had hair a few shades lighter than Devorah Hartman’s, wide brown eyes, and a soft face. His firm mouth, though, showed me he was not weak of character, even if he looked a bit like a calf. He was clean-shaven and wore a suit whose modest cut even Grenville would approve.

“Captain Lacey,” Mr. Stein said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “Miss Hartman told me she’d come to visit you.”

I raised my brows as I shook his hand. “She did not mention you, I feel I should tell you.”

“I am not surprised.” Stein gave me a thin smile. “She never considered me good enough for her younger sister.” He hesitated. “When Devorah told me she’d gone to you, I’d planned to visit you myself, but my wife convinced me not to. Water under the bridge, she said. All in the past, not our business. I agreed with her, but I am glad you sought me out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

So, I reflected, Mr. Stein was another man who’d moved on after Judith’s death.

Had she been so forgettable? It had been many years after my wife left me before I’d even contemplated marrying again, though I admit to several love affairs. But marriage—I’d not wanted to take the step of declaring my wife gone, abandoning me, perhaps lying dead. That would have made it too final.

“You reported her missing,” I said to Stein. “To Bow Street.”

“To the Whitechapel magistrate’s house,” Stein corrected me. “It was the nearest.”

I knew the magistrate there—Sir Montague Harris. I would have to find out if he’d been there at the relevant time.

“Why did you?” I asked. “The note in the records said you waited nearly a week before you sought the magistrate.”

Stein let out a sigh. “Judith no longer wanted anything to do with me—I was not certain she’d welcome me looking for her. She’d made it clear she despised her family, her faith, her friends … me. We were backward to her—never mind we live elbow-to-elbow with Anglos and share almost all aspects of their lives. No, because we still attend the synagogue and observe kiddush, we are medieval and slow. She was impatient for life, was Judith.”

Around us men flowed back into London, heading home for meals and the end of their Sabbath day. Molodzinski had discreetly moved from us and was engaged in conversation with his acquaintance.

“She presumably found this new life with Mr. Bennett,” I said.

A flash of anger lit Mr. Stein’s affable face. Anything soft in him fled, and his eyes hardened.

“Bennett flattered her, cajoled her, turned her from her family. My father and hers had agreed upon our marriage, and Judith had been all for it. I loved her, pure and simple. I am not a traditionalist—I did not expect her to cover herself from all eyes and hide at home. When I escorted her out, with her father, we were lively and happy. But Bennett—he convinced Judith that what she had was wrong and dull. She’d only see life if she fled the confines of her father’s house and moved with him to Oxford Street.”

“That is where they lived?” I asked.

“He’d bought a house there with money his father left him, or so he claimed. Judith at first told Devorah—with whom she still corresponded—that she was happy there. But later … I don’t know what transpired. She disliked the house, she wanted to move to a better …”

Had Judith been of a character that needed constant novelty? Or had she discovered that Bennett had, in truth, little to give her? Perhaps the house had been only leased, perhaps he’d counted on Judith’s family to provide her with money. I would seek Bennett again and throttle answers from him.

“If she lived at Oxford Street,” I began. “Why had she gone to Aldgate High Street? Where both you and Devorah reported her last seen?”

Stein shook his head. “I could not say. Judith occasionally met Devorah, though not often, because Devorah liked to scold her. Devorah told me she saw Judith by chance at Aldgate High Street. Judith glanced her way then hurried off, gone. When letters to Judith went unanswered in the next few days, Devorah went to the house in Oxford Street to find Judith and Bennett both gone. Moved out a few days before, the neighbors said. After a tremendous row.”

My brows rose. “Indeed?” Bennett had omitted this fact. “That is when Devorah reported her missing?”

“She did. I had not known Devorah had gone to the magistrate until later. I myself approached the Oxford Street house—in case the neighbors were mistaken—but no. They were gone. I saw Bennett on that street, or supposed I did, a few days later, without Judith. I followed him. He went to another house, and I glimpsed, while the door was open, a woman who welcomed him in, but she was not Judith.”

Very interesting, indeed. “Where was this house?”

Stein blinked his large eyes at me. “This was years ago, Captain. I no longer remember the number of Bennett’s house, though I think it was near Swallow Street. This house was further along, around Soho Square.”

“Did you inquire further?” I asked.

“No—I was angry, and alarmed. But I had no wish to confront Bennett so I went to the magistrate.” He let out another defeated breath. “All for nothing. Devorah and I searched, but we never found Judith. Bennett came to me looking for her as well, convinced I and her family had taken her back. He left after calling me some appalling names, and I never saw him again. Neither Mr. Hartman nor I had the money at the time to offer sufficient reward or hire someone to help us. After a time, we assumed her dead. And now it appears we were correct.”

His sorrow was genuine, I thought, but faded now. He remembered Judith with regret, but I did not read in him a lingering rage at Bennett or grief at Judith’s death. She was gone, had been for a long time, and he had a new family, a new life.

Had this man struck her down? Had Stein, with his calf eyes, been unforgiving when Judith eloped? Perhaps Judith had come to meet him somewhere near Aldgate High Street—she might have been unhappy with Bennett and thought she could speak to Stein about it. Maybe she hoped Stein might forgive her and help her get free of Bennett. Or simply came at his summons. Stein might have walked her nearer the river, argued with her, struck her, pushed her in.

Devorah had caught sight of her by chance, and Stein had become worried when she reported Judith missing. He’d reported her missing as well, because that is what a man who’d cared about a woman would do, jilted by her or not.

For whatever reason those reports and Judith’s bones found five years later had not been connected. Remembering the sea of papers under the Bow Street house, I was not terribly surprised.

Stein had strong hands and a solid build. He’d have been even more strong and agile in his twenties. A quarrel gone wrong? Or had he planned to kill Judith for disgracing him?

Proof. I needed proof. A confession would be fine as well.

Stein regarded me calmly. I read in him no urge to confess his great sin to me. I would have to trick or frighten it out of him.

Or, Stein might have had nothing to do with it, had only made the best of his life after his disappointment. I hoped, for his wife’s sake, that he’d found a friend and helpmeet in the current Mrs. Stein, and appreciated it.

Stein tipped his hat. “If that is all, Captain, my wife expects me home.”

“Of course,” I said. “May I call upon you if I need to speak to you again?”

“Send word,” Stein said quickly. “I will meet you.”

He did not want me at his house, speaking to him of the past. If he were innocent, I could understand. If guilty—well, I’d make certain he paid.

Judith might have been like a butterfly, flitting after happiness as she saw it, hurting those she left behind, but she shouldn’t have been killed. Her family had known her as the young, rather silly thing who wrestled herself from the perceived confinement of her life.

I’d seen her as a collection of bones, lost, forgotten, an object of pity. I’d pot who killed her, never mind the trouble I’d cause.

“I will send word,” I responded. “Good day, Mr. Stein.”

We shook hands again, and parted.

“You never said you were coming to dwell among the Hebrews,” a voice at my back remarked.

I turned without much surprise to find Brewster. Likely, he’d seen me leave Bow Street and followed. Bartholomew lounged near the hackney I’d hired for the day, waiting for me.

“Are you converting?” Brewster asked when I turned to him.

“Trying to solve a crime,” I countered. “Tell me, did you ask your footman friend to infiltrate the house in Cavendish Square?”

“I did. And he did. He’s chuffed at the job. Says they took him on at once. Pay is decent, though the others there warned him servants don’t stick it long. They can’t stand that Bennett chap.”

I imagined I wouldn’t stick it long either.

I sought Molodzinski and thanked him for his trouble.

“Glad to help,” Molodzinski said. “I have been asking about Hartman and his family, but I haven’t learned much more than you have. Hartman is one whose father, and his father before him, embraced Englishness only reluctantly. Hartman is happy to live and work without impediment, but he yearns for the old ways. Me, I like the new days.”

“The new days are dangerous,” I pointed out, with a glance at his bruises.

“Ha. So were the old, Captain. At one point in history, and not so long ago as all that, it was a crime to be a Jew. I like the new, enlightened days.”

I agreed he had the right of it, and took my leave of him.

“Bartholomew,” I said as Brewster and I approached the hackney. “Would you like to do some covert investigation for me?”

Bartholomew brightened. “Of course I would, Captain. As I said, I’m your man.”

“Good. Then take yourself to Cavendish Square and become acquainted with the servants below stairs in Captain Woolwich’s house. Any time Mr. Bennett leaves that house, follow him and report to me what he does. I’ll give you some money so you can stay at a public house—I want you to observe him for some days.”

Bartholomew’s eyes lit, then he frowned. “If I’m following this gent about, who will look after you at home?”

I waved that away. “I will manage—as I did for many years.” I took coins from my pocket and dropped them into his hand. “Do not let Bennett see you. He has met Matthias, and you two are much alike.”

“He’ll never know I’m there,” Bartholomew promised. He touched his forehead in salute and jogged away.

“You know, my bloke Jack will find anything wrong going on in that house,” Brewster said, sounding the slightest bit hurt.

“Inside,” I said. “Your man won’t be able to invent enough excuses to leave the house to follow Bennett every day. Believe me, I will be agog to hear Jack’s reports.”

Brewster looked mollified. “Where to now, Captain?”

“Home,” I said. “I have promised my wife to take great care when I am out. Although I need to look into two houses in Oxford Street, exact addresses vague. Damn it all, I wish my information wasn’t from so many years ago—if Bennett had been visiting a mistress, I might never find her. He might have long ago finished with her, or she has left London, or died, or she was not his mistress at all.”

“Tall order,” Brewster agreed.

“Hence, I asked Bartholomew to watch him. I am interested in what Mr. Bennett does with his day.”

Brewster grunted. “I understand. I might not be able to help you with this much longer, I have to warn you. Mr. Denis has suggested that, as he puts it, my talents be employed elsewhere, and another of his men set to watch you.”

My brows rose. “Truly? But you are excellent at it. I never know when you are going to pop up.”

Brewster’s cheekbones stained red. “Hap-parently, I am looking after you too well. His nibs wants no harm to come to you, but he’s not happy that you talk to me, like, and stand me drinks. Or that I took you to visit my missus for tea. Says I can’t intimidate you if I let you speak with me.”

“In other words, he wishes to protect me but also keep me in my place.”

“Somefink like that.”

I hid my annoyance. “Would it be helpful if I had you knock me about a time or two? I could show him my injuries as proof you are sufficiently intimidating.”

Brewster grinned. “Then your missus would light into me. Think I’ll risk the displeasure of his nibs, instead. But I’d be sorry to lose the post,” he said. “It’s not dull, following you about.”

He closed his mouth over this declaration and shoved me up into the hackney. Declaring it was overly hot inside, Brewster elected to ride on the box with the coachman.

I reflected, as the hackney pulled away and headed for Leadenhall, that with Brewster I’d begun to forge an unlikely, but not unwelcome, friendship.

***

I could do little myself to investigate Judith’s murder over the next few days, much as I longed to drag Bennett from his home and beat answers from him.

When I returned home Saturday afternoon, I found Lady Aline closeted with Donata. Both ladies pounced on me and recruited me to do errands that had left them in despair.

The come-out was to be held at Lady Aline’s very large house in Berkeley Square. When I’d asked, in all innocence, when that decision had been made, why it could not be held in Donata’s house, I was given stares that told me I was a blithering fool. Not enough room, Donata had said crisply. And this house was pokey, not like Aline’s lofty grandeur.

I could not agree, but I decided not to argue.

The hired musicians and music master had apparently had a falling out. I was sent ’round to reconcile them and make certain they would still come. The hired furniture—extra chairs, tables, and dressing tables for the withdrawing rooms—had to be directed into place with a firm hand, as did the many candles for the colossal chandeliers. I was also to ensure the temperamental pastry maker prepared exactly what was wished in the exact way Donata had instructed.

When I was not busy with these devastating tasks, I was writing letters to soothe the tempers of the gentlemen whose families had not been invited.

I drew the line, I said, at fighting duels over it.

I was glad I’d put Bartholomew and Brewster’s friend Jack in place to watch over Mr. Bennett. Bartholomew, true to his word, followed the man about but made certain to never be spotted. Bennett never noticed, Bartholomew said in his messages to me. The man never looked around.

Brewster reported to me what his friend discovered—Jack could not write a clear sentence, Brewster said, so had to convey the information through him.

Even so, between them, they learned nothing of great interest. Bennett had done nothing sinister, although both Bartholomew and Jack agreed the man was an ass.

I put forth one more inquiry. It occurred to me, as I sat in the elegant synagogue, having no idea as to the significance of the ceremony—would Judith likewise have had no sense of what was happening in an English church? Granted, our services were in English, but they were a bit archaic, and I imagine, somewhat byzantine to those not raised to them.

I wanted very much to know whether Bennett had tricked her into believing she’d married him. Why he should fool her, I didn’t know, but I wanted to see a record of their marriage in black and white.

Grenville, after I’d told him about the reports I’d found at Bow Street and my talk with Stein, offered to track down the marriage record. He knew the curates or vicars of every church in London, since he’d gone to school with most of them, or at least members of their families.

He cheerfully left me to the sphere of my womenfolk, who were driving me mad with this approaching event, and headed off to investigate.

Dreams of Judith still came to me, always the same. She’d walk to me, sometimes looking like her sister, sometimes Gabriella. She’d hold out her hand, which would turn skeletal, and then she’d fall to the street, broken and dead.

Tuesday dawned, and so we came to Gabriella’s come-out.