Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

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“I never killed her.” Bennett’s tears overflowed. “I grieved when she disappeared. I admit to marrying when perhaps I should not, but only because I love too much. I love. I would never hurt any of them.”

His words rang with sincerity. My hope for a frantic confession evaporated. “What about Jack?” I asked. “I’m certain you had no love for him.”

Bennett snuffled into his hand in confusion. “Jack? Who is Jack?”

“Your footman. He followed you last night. You caught him, and you struck him down.”

More bewilderment. “I had no idea I had a footman called Jack. Margaret does all the hiring, with Woolwich’s approval. I have nothing to do with the servants.”

I lost my patience. “Whether you knew who he was or not, you struck him. For following you.”

“You have run absolutely mad.” Bennett wiped his eyes and gazed at me with more confidence. “I have killed no one. I saw a large man skulking after me, but then I lost him, and I thought it was my imagination. I did not strike anyone.”

A liar was never more resolute than when he was telling the truth for once. Damnation.

“I might be convicted of bigamy,” Bennett said, “though I assure you I will fight it. But not murder.”

He folded his lips and sat back, fixing his gaze out the window.

We arrived in Bow Street in silence. Pomeroy himself, alerted by the message we’d sent before we’d gone to Cavendish Square, opened the carriage door and escorted Mr. Bennett down.

“Welcome, sir,” Pomeroy said. “You will find fine accommodations in this inn, I’m sure. Perhaps even a pot of your own for your piss. Thank you, Captain. You may let him go now.”

I had climbed down after Bennett and seized his arm. My fingers clamped down as he tried to follow Pomeroy, no doubt believing Pomeroy safer than me.

“Where were you going?” I asked Bennett. “Last night—not when you visited Ella, but after that?”

“Nothing at all to do with this,” Bennett said quickly. “A business matter. I promise you.”

“Where?” I repeated severely.

“Tottenham Court Road.” Bennett gave me a peevish stare. “If you must know.”

Pomeroy flicked my fingers with his. “The prisoner is mine,” he said. “When I get the conviction, I’ll stand you a pint.”

I let go. I no longer needed to hold on to Bennett. He’d come up before the magistrate, who would send him to Newgate to await his trial. It was finished.

With Bennett’s last words to me, thrown out so I would cease pursuing him, he’d given me a large piece of the puzzle. Now, I knew.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I called up to Jackson to take us to Tottenham Court Road, and scrambled as quickly as I could back into the carriage.

Jackson drove us northward through Drury Lane and Bloomsbury, and we ended up on the wide thoroughfare of Tottenham Court Road. Jackson halted halfway along, as I’d asked, and I invited Grenville and Brewster upstairs with me.

I had not said a word to them in explanation. Grenville had started to berate me, then lapsed into silence. He’d learned when to leave me be.

If I were wrong, then I was. Unlike with Bennett, I wanted no other to lose by my hot temper and erroneous assumptions.

The younger surgeon, Coombs’s former apprentice, was not in, but the door to the main part of the house was unlocked, presumably so consultants could wait for his return. I thumped my way upstairs, Grenville and Brewster following, and tapped on the door at the top.

Mr. Coombs was indeed within. He peered at us with his wide brown eyes and readily invited us into his front room.

“How may I help you today, Mr. Grenville? Captain? Have you had any progress?”

Grenville said nothing, only stood back and let me speak.

“I have come to tell you that Mr. Andrew Bennett has been arrested,” I said.

Coombs’s eyes widened, and his brows climbed. “Bennett?”

“The husband of Judith Hartman, whose arm you set.”

“Ah, the poor creature you found in the river. He murdered her?” Coombs’s voice warmed. “Then I am glad I could help you discover her identity. And that you are bringing the man to justice.”

“Mr. Bennett did not kill her,” I said. “I made a mistake. I am apt to come too quickly to conclusions.”

Coombs gave me a puzzled look. “Then I do not understand. I thought you said you arrested him.”

“For something else entirely. Why did you treat Judith’s arm?”

“Why?” Coombs’s puzzlement grew. “She’d broken it, and her father brought her to me.”

“Who broke it? Her husband? Or her father, in his anger?”

“I … don’t know.”

“I believe you do know exactly what happened,” I said.

I leaned both hands on my walking stick. I noticed Brewster, out of the corner of my eye, position himself in front of the door.

Coombs shook his head. “I am in the dark.”

“I believe that Mr. Hartman brought Judith here for her arm to be set—how she broke it, I am not certain. He gave you her sister’s name because he was ashamed that Judith was now Mrs. Bennett, disgracing the family. Judith appears to have gone along with this—perhaps she was regretting her choice in Bennett and wanting to appease her father. He brought her to you, far from his friends and family, so they would not see her. You set the bone, and she went away.”

“Yes.” Coombs nodded. “I explained this.”

“Bennett found out, I’m certain. Either Judith told him, or he followed them to you. Perhaps he wanted to discover what Judith’s father had been doing with his wife.”

Coombs said nothing. My heart beat swiftly. Again, I was guessing, poking in the dark, but I was certain Coombs was the key to this.

“I can always ask your apprentice,” I said. “I imagine he was here at the time, as your assistant.”

“All right, yes.” Coombs scowled at me. “Bennett did come here looking for his wife, and I told him what happened. Bennett is not a good man—I am glad to hear he has been arrested. He was carrying on with other women when Judith was his wife. Nasty business.”

“Did you tell Judith this?” I asked, watching him.

Coombs lifted his knuckle and pressed his teeth into it—a habit he had—and I saw a new light come into his eyes. “Yes, I did. When she returned to me to have her splint removed, I mentioned it. I said I could furnish proofs if she wanted it. She did, and we arranged to meet again.”

I saw Grenville’s tiny start of surprise. A man who didn’t know Grenville might not observe that he was jolted; he hid it well. Brewster, as always, remained stoic.

“Did you meet her here?” I asked.

“Not here, no, indeed. In the City, near the Great Synagogue, where her people are.”

Her people rented rooms over a shop in the Strand, but I forbore to say so.

“You met her,” I said. “You told her of Bennett’s promiscuity.”

Coombs nodded. “I felt she ought to know. She’d left her life to be with him, poor lamb. We walked from Aldgate down toward the river—I scarce noted which direction we went. And then Bennett found us.”

“Mmm.” I had the feeling I knew what he would say next. “What happened?”

“He was enraged. Bennett confronted me, then shouted at Judith, telling her to go home, like a good wife. She wept, she groaned, she pleaded with him. We were near the docks at St. Catherine’s. He found a piece of iron bar, discarded. He took it up, and he hit her … She fell to the ground—it was terrible. Then he lifted her and tipped her into the river, dropped the bar in after her, and went home.”

Coombs stopped, letting out a long breath.

“What time of day was it?” I asked.

“Pardon? Oh … I scarce remember.”

“I would predict, evening. Judith’s sister saw her at Aldgate in the afternoon. No one saw you, or Bennett—Devorah would be sure to state if she saw him. I will return to my early speculation. You arranged to meet her here, in these rooms.”

“No, indeed. That would have been foolish.”

“Not if you wished to save her from Bennett,” I went on doggedly. “She was, as everyone has pointed out, a pretty young woman. I speculate that she was at Aldgate looking for her former intended, Mr. Stein. To reconcile with him? Perhaps. If Judith could prove Bennett did not marry her legally, she might ask Mr. Stein to forgive her and make an honest wife of her. You had already alerted her of Bennett’s perfidy. She would talk to you, get the proof she needed, and set a solicitor and her father on him. When she came here … what happened?”

“She did not come,” Coombs said stubbornly. His face was red.

“Again, I could ask your former assistant. Or anyone else I can find who was in the house at the time. She came here.”

“Very well—yes,” Coombs said, his voice a cracked whisper. “But Bennett was here too. That is not a lie. He followed her. He found her. He …”

“I do not believe Bennett killed her,” I said. “I looked into Bennett’s eyes when he protested his innocence. Bennett is a great liar, but about that, no.”

“How can you believe him?” Coombs asked, his lips white.

“You have tools.” I moved to the shelves and removed the long-handled chisel. “One blow killed her, dealt by a man who knew exactly where to strike. The other surgeon I consulted suggested such a thing.”

“Who is this surgeon?” Coombs flashed. “Let him accuse me.”

“He has no idea of your guilt. Why did you hit her? Did she refuse to leave Bennett for you? Even when you promised to take care of her?”

Coombs stared at me, openmouthed, and then at last his face flushed with color, and his eyes filled with rage.

“She was devoted to him. I could not understand it. Bennett was married to another woman already, and Judith would not believe me. She’d made up her mind to go home to her father, to beg forgiveness and start her life again, but when she came back here, she revealed that Bennett had talked her into staying with him. I was flummoxed. In my anger, I struck out at Bennett. Judith leapt in front of him to save him, and so I hit her …”

Coombs’s hand had come up in demonstration. As it came down again, mimicking the blow, tears sprang into his eyes and flowed down his cheeks.

“Good God,” Grenville said. “Bennett saw you kill his wife? Why did he not send for the magistrates at once?”

“Because he is an evil, evil man,” Coombs said, his voice rising. “He already had a wife. He wanted Judith’s money for the keeping of her, then Judith’s father refused to give them any. Not while he was alive, not in a will when he was dead. But that night Bennett found a new source of income—me. Money from me to keep quiet that I’d murdered her. Bennett took her off in a cart, and I never saw what became of her until you brought in her bones. He bled me dry …”

“Why did you not say so?” I asked. “When I came here, and showed you what had become of her, why did you not tell me what he’d done? For keeping it quiet, he is as much a murderer as you.”

“Because I do not want to hang!” Coombs’s shrillness increased. “Not for only killing a Jew. If I steered you to him, and you found out what he was yourself—I have heard of your ability to find criminals and take them to Bow Street. Bennett would hang, and I would cease having to pay him.”

He buried his face in his hands, weeping.

“Only killing a Jew,” I repeated. “Is that what she was to you, in the end? Not quite a person, in your eyes? Because she refused you?”

“She was a bloody fool!”

“I agree,” I said. “I would have fled you both. You killed again, though, did you not? You saw the man I hired to keep an eye on Bennett follow him, and you struck him down as well.”

Coombs nodded, continuing to weep. “Yes.”

“He killed Jack?” Brewster broke in, outraged. “Let me have a go at him, Captain.”

“No,” I said. “He is for the magistrates.”

Coombs looked up, his sobs quieting. “I will tell them about Bennett. All about what he is.”

“And I have no doubt he’ll tell them all about you,” I said.

Coombs paled, then he reddened again and he came at me. Pushing me onto my bad leg, he snatched the chisel from my hand, raised it, and swung it with precision straight at my head.

I swiftly brought up my walking stick and blocked the blow. The metal rang against the hard wood of the stick, jerking his hand up again. Coombs tried another strike, but he crumpled and fell as Brewster bowled him aside, his fist landing in the man’s gut.

Coombs collapsed to the floor, groaning. Brewster shook out his hand, looking furious but satisfied.

***

Coombs was in no shape to fight the three of us as we, for the second time that day, bundled a criminal into Grenville’s carriage and drove him to the magistrate’s court.

I sent a message before we left to Thompson in Wapping that told him to come to Bow Street to find the murderer of Judith Hartman. Thompson arrived in a remarkably short time after we descended at Bow Street with Coombs and gave him to Pomeroy.

Thompson looked buoyed—for him. “Well done, Captain,” he said, wringing my hand as we met inside the front door. “I knew you’d not fail. This is a burden from my mind, I will tell you. I’d think of her on a winter night, unknown, unwept for …”

“It was good of you to care,” I said. “Not many would.”

Thompson shrugged, his narrow face flushing. “Mayhap I’m too sentimental to be a thief-taker.” He shook my hand again. “I thank you, Captain. I am in your debt.”

“Go to Mr. Hartman,” I said. “Tell him and Judith’s sister, and Mr. Stein, all that has happened. Do that, and I will consider the debt paid.”

“I will do so, but that will not be enough,” Thompson promised. “Consult me anytime you need assistance, Captain.”

He touched his battered hat to me, and disappeared up the stairs, calling to Pomeroy as he went.

***

After that, Grenville, I, and Brewster made for Grimpen Lane, in the still-light evening, and shared brandy.

“Whew,” Grenville said after he’d drunk a large measure. “What a pair of disgusting, underhanded, horrible … I cannot think of words bad enough to call them.”

“Selfish-prick bastards,” Brewster supplied.

Grenville pointed the fingers around his goblet at him. “I will agree to that. What on earth made you suspect him, Lacey?”

“Nothing,” I said slowly. “And everything. I remembered his instruments—torture devices I thought them. The fact that Judith had been killed with such precision, the same precision that healed her arm, was in the back of my mind. When Bennett said his appointment last night was in Tottenham Court Road, where the only other man who’d seen his wife before she died had rooms … I was not certain, but I had to try.”

“I see.” Grenville pondered this. “I imagine Bennett pointed you in Coombs’s direction for a reason. If he had to go down, so did Coombs.” Grenville sipped more brandy. “Those poor women. Although, I am happy they will be free of him.”

“He had to be mad,” Brewster said with conviction. “Bennett, I mean. My missus is furious if I even wink at a woman. I can’t imagine hiding another wife and entire family from her, let alone two or three. She’d have it out of me in no time. And then she’d kill me.”

“Bennett’s wives were not gifted with keen intelligence,” Grenville pointed out. “He seemed careful to choose those who were trusting and naive.”

“True.” Brewster nodded.

“Whatever their natures, they should not have—” I broke off my statement, frowning. I’d heard a creak on the stairs, or so I thought.

I rose. The room had grown dim as the sun finally decided to sink, but it was still early twilight. Daylight lingered for a long time in June.

By this light, I saw the door swing open. The man who stood in its outline was my father.

I halted. No—not my father. The vicar at Parson’s Point in Norfolk had buried him nearly ten years ago, and everyone in the village had breathed a collective sigh of relief. My father was dead and gone.

But this man could have been his twin, though much younger.

Then I realized—he could be my twin.

Grenville had also risen, gaping. “Good Lord.”

The man stood my height, had the same dark, unruly hair, and brown eyes. He had my build, but he stood straighter, without my broken limb. His face was not quite the same, I saw, in that second. The touch of another lineage had shaped it.

Brewster was on his feet, hands balled. “Who are ye?” he demanded.

“The one you ruined,” the man said to me, his deep growl much like mine, though his accent held a touch of the colonies. “And so, I ruin you.”

A pistol came out of the folds of his coat. He pointed it straight at me, and fired.

Chapter Thirty

I saw the kick of the gun, the flash. Heard the roar, smelled the stench of gunpowder.

The bullet never reached me. Brewster, snarling, launched himself into me and pushed me out of the way. We fell together in a heap, Brewster a dead weight on top of me.

“Lacey!” Grenville was shouting. “Hey! Stop him! Help!”

Boots on the stairs announced the man running, Grenville after him. I shoved at Brewster. “I’m fine. Get up.”

A groan answered me. I scrambled out from under Brewster’s heavy body and looked down at him in shock.

Blood seeped from Brewster’s gut to stain his rough linen shirt. His face was dead white, eyes open and filled with pain.

“Damnation,” I snarled.

I ran for the bedchamber, snatched every towel I could find, and rushed back to the front room. I jerked open Brewster’s shirt and pressed the folded towels hard to his abdomen.

He’d taken the bullet on the left side of his stomach, I saw before I pushed the towels down. The bullet had not come through into me or the floor, so it was still inside him.

“The surgeon,” I said urgently. “You’ll need him. Where is he?”

Brewster shook his head the slightest bit.

Grenville burst back inside. “I couldn’t catch him. I grabbed a patrolman, told him to spread the alert.” He switched his gaze to Brewster, and stopped. “Good Lord.”

“Tell me where to find the surgeon,” I said to Brewster. “You don’t want me to take out the bullet. It’s too tricky.” I had done such things before, but I’d prefer the steady hands of the man so well trained.

Brewster continued to shake his head. “Denis won’t like it.”

“I don’t give a damn.” I put into my voice the note that had terrified my soldiers on the Peninsula. “Tell me, damn and blast you. Or Denis will be the least of your worries.”

Brewster wheezed, his words growing fainter. “Captain …”

“If you don’t do it for your own sake, or mine, do it for your wife’s. Do you want to leave Emily alone?”

Brewster’s eyes snapped open again. He had difficulty focusing, but he managed to speak. “King’s Court. Off Great Wild Street.”

“I’ll go,” Grenville said. “It’s not far.”

Without waiting for argument, he was off again, running faster than I ever dreamed he could. Grenville was an athlete, however much he hid it, riding, walking, fencing, dancing, and boxing with enviable skill.

“Tell Em,” Brewster whispered. “You know what to tell her.”

His eyes slid closed.

I pressed down harder with the towel. I did not want him to sleep—he might die before the surgeon could even arrive.

“Brewster,” I said sharply. “No, wake up and talk to me.” I shook him. My voice cracked. “Thomas. Tommy …”

***

When Grenville returned in about twenty minutes, he not only brought the surgeon, but also James Denis.

Denis’s face was dark with rage. I rarely saw him this angry—only when one of his men got hurt.

He said nothing at all, only stood aside while the surgeon fell to his knees next to Brewster, a canvas bag clinking to the floor beside him.

The surgeon looked over the little I’d done: a folded blanket for Brewster’s head, the towels on his abdomen, the smaller blanket I’d spread across his legs to keep him warm, the basin of water standing ready.

“Should we put him on the bed?” I asked.

“Not yet.” The surgeon spoke with clipped, decisive words. His hands, thin and deft, skimmed the wound, feeling around it. Brewster’s eyes opened and widened in pain, but the surgeon quickly finished.

“Give him this.” The surgeon handed me a flask.

I obediently sat down at Brewster’s side, lifted his head with my arm, and poured the liquid into his throat.

Brewster swallowed. “Aw, that’s foul,” he whispered, but the draught stayed down.

I had no idea what the surgeon had given him. I expected brandy or laudanum, but the odor was wrong for either. Brewster’s face went slack, but he breathed hoarsely, and grunted in pain when the surgeon probed him again.

“Hold him down,” the surgeon said.

I put my arm across Brewster’s chest. Grenville got down on the carpet, regardless of his pristine clothes, and held on to his legs.

I could not see all that the surgeon did, but there was the flash of a very thin knife and the scent of blood. Then the man reached into Brewster with the slenderest pair of forceps I’d ever seen.

His hand was steady, without a tremor. Slowly he pulled out a round iron ball and dropped it onto my carpet.

Immediately, he pressed the towels to the wound again. Surgeons I’d observed in the army would let a wound bleed a bit, to clean it. This surgeon kept the towels on Brewster and ordered Grenville to shove the basin over to him.

My carpet grew sodden with blood and water as the surgeon used nearly a gallon of the stuff to wash out the wound. He then sewed up the gash with needle and thread, his stitches smaller and neater than the elegant stitching on my wife’s underclothing.

The surgeon washed the wound again when he was finished, wrapped a long bandage around Brewster’s middle, and rose.

“Heave him on the bed now—carefully. Don’t break the stitching. He doesn’t move after that until I say so.”

I carefully took Brewster by the shoulders. His eyes were open, gleaming with pain, but clouded by whatever drug he’d been given.

It was not Grenville who took his legs, but Denis. He lifted Brewster with careful strength, letting me guide us all into the bedroom. Grenville came behind with the blankets and whatever towels could be salvaged. The surgeon, I saw, with some surprise, had poured water into another bowl and now threw his instruments into it.

Denis’s strength came to me through Brewster’s body. I’d known the man was strong when we’d fought for our lives in Norfolk, but it came as a sharp reminder that he’d begun life struggling for survival. Denis so often sat still while he directed others to do things for him that I forgot about his brute strength, just as I forgot Grenville’s agility.

I gave Denis a nod when I was ready, and we lifted Brewster as one and placed him on the bed. Brewster gave another grunt of pain, his eyelids fluttering, then he settled down.

Denis stepped back, and Grenville and I carefully laid the blankets over Brewster’s inert body.

The surgeon came to look him over. “Keep him warm. If he takes a fever, give him more of this.” He set the flask on the bedside table. “Not more than a swallow or two at a time.”

“What is it?” I asked in curiosity.

“An extract of a native plant from the Americas,” the surgeon said. “I do not know its true name. A sage of some kind.” He continued before I could ask more questions. “The bullet did not penetrate any organs, so he should mend. Keep him here, and do not let him move. Feed him if he wants food, but not too much. Someone will have to nurse him.”

“Em,” Brewster whispered.

I laid my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll bring her. You and she are welcome to stay as long as you need.”

The surgeon gave me a final nod, the last of the sunlight touching his balding head. “I will return in three days.”

Without further word, he walked out. I followed, but the surgeon moved quickly, and I did not catch him until he’d reached the bottom of the stairwell.

“What do I owe you?” I asked him. “Beyond what Denis pays you, I mean. You saved his life.”

The surgeon looked me up and down, his eyes so cold, with no pride in what he’d just done. “As I told you before, Captain, my price is silence. I have no other.”

With that, he opened the door and walked out into the darkening lane.

Grenville came clattering down after him. “Strange fellow, but remarkable.” He put on his hat. “I am off to fetch the good Mrs. Brewster. Poor lady—I’ll break it as gently as I can.”

“Thank you. Can you also get word to Donata? Tell her what has happened and to keep Gabriella home. Tell her I will come as soon as I can.”

“I’ve sent Jackson back to Mayfair already,” Grenville said. “The surgeon’s house was close enough and the streets so crowded it was easy for me to go on foot.”

A knot eased inside me. Grenville was a good friend and a wise man.

Grenville continued. “Mr. Denis requests that I send you up to him. I believe he wishes to confer.”

“Mr. Denis is eager to give orders in my own rooms,” I said, but I was too tired and worried for anger.

“No doubt he wants to know what happened. He saw me as I went sprinting down Drury Lane and into the heart of molly territory. I shudder to think of the newspapers tomorrow. Denis insisted that his carriage bring us back, but I have never seen him so angry. Even that business in Norfolk didn’t enrage him as much I think.”

Grenville nodded at me, slipped out the door, and was gone.

I climbed the stairs and entered my front room. Denis had moved there, and was lighting candles. He was not one for sitting in the dark. He’d also drawn my curtains, so that the light would not show us to those outside.

Denis pointed to the chair by the fireplace, indicating I should sit. “Tell me about this man who shot Mr. Brewster.”

To remind him of my independence, I took the straight chair at the writing desk. I soon regretted my decision, because my leg was starting to ache, with a deep hurt that I knew would stay with me for days.

“I know nothing about him,” I said. “He has been sending me threatening letters, he rode at Peter and me in the park, and tonight he shot at me. He looks like me and has my voice, though he sounds as though he’s been living elsewhere in the world. I’d never seen him before.”

Denis took the wing chair and cross his trousered legs. “A relation?”

I shrugged, pain seeping through my entire body now. “If so, I’ve never known of him.”

Denis touched his fingertips together. “I will find him, have no fear of it. I will explain to him that I do not like gentlemen shooting one of my own.”

“To be fair, he was aiming at me, not Brewster. Brewster jumped in the way.”

Denis’s eyes went hard. “I was talking about you.”

I met his gaze as silence fell between us.

I did not want to belong to him; I hadn’t from the day I’d met him. And yet, there now existed between us a complicated mesh of obligation, favors, secrets, and gratitude that I would never untangle. I did not know whether Denis had won the game, or entangled himself in it as well.

“I would be obliged,” I began, “if you would keep this person away from my family.”

“That shall be done,” Denis said. “I sent two of my men to South Audley Street as soon as Mr. Grenville babbled out what had happened.”

More knots loosened. “Thank you.”

Denis merely rested his hands on the arms of the wing chair. He hated being demonstrative.

We waited in silence for a little while. One of the candles, wax, Donata had insisted, gently crackled as its wick drew up fuel.

My curiosity would never let me sit quietly for long. “The surgeon,” I said, “who remains nameless. What on earth did he do?”

Denis’s brows lifted a fraction. “He is a killer.”

So Brewster had intimated when I’d first asked. Knows exactly where to stick the knife if he has to … Brewster had said.

“More specifically?” I asked. “Did he do away with his wife? A patient? He seems so very cool that I cannot imagine him losing his temper and stabbing a man with his scalpel.”

“There is nothing amusing about him, Lacey. I will tell you so that you do not go blundering about asking him. He murdered, not one man, but a dozen.”

I went still. “A dozen?”

I’d killed men myself, in Mysore, on the Peninsula, in other places during the long wars. I’d fought for my life, to win battles, to take my men to safety.

One man killing another in anger, in a fight or struggle in London’s streets was understandable. A dozen bordered on horror.

“Why? Is he a madman?” I’d never met a calmer, more collected madman if so. “Please do not tell me he killed his patients for the scientific knowledge of it.”

“Nothing so macabre.” Denis’s voice was quiet. “He is an extremely competent surgeon and is quite angry if one under his care dies. But he knows how to kill quickly and efficiently, exactly where to cut, what to sever. Other men began hiring him to do so. I believe he asked a reasonable fee and did the job so competently it left no trace. He was caught not because of anything he did, but because the last man who hired him panicked and told the magistrates. The surgeon did not discover this in time to leave the country, and he was convicted of two of the murders. His sentence was commuted to transportation, possibly because I asked it to be done, but more likely because of his professional skills. Someone like him would be needed in the colonies.”

“You employed him?” I asked. “Is that how you knew him?”

Denis’s eyes held no emotion I could see. “No, indeed. Someone else employed him to kill me. Needless to say, he was not successful.”

“Your guards stopped him?” I asked.

“My guards were useless against him. He got past them all and into my bedchamber.”

I stilled in amazement. Denis never, ever let anyone get close enough to him to so much as touch him.

Denis went on, “I am alive because he let me talk to him, and then I paid him a large sum, far larger than the other man had given him. It was that employer who went to the magistrates. He was terrified I’d send the surgeon after him.” He shrugged. “I was tempted, but that would have been too obvious.”

I pictured the situation, two men of equal sangfroid and ruthlessness squaring off.

“If you paid him, why did Brewster tell me you considered yourself in his debt?”

“Because the surgeon’s professional pride did not want him to turn on his employer. I persuaded him, and he liked the idea of having me under his obligation. So … I worked to get his sentence commuted, and I provided the means for him to escape that confinement when he wished. And so when you kept asking to send for him …” Denis shook his head. “You do try my patience, Captain.”

“An explanation might have saved you much trouble,” I said.

His fingers moved on the chair arms. “I forget that you will not leave well enough alone simply because you are told to.” Denis gave me a severe look. “For this man who is trying to kill you—leave that alone as well. I will hunt him and find him.”