Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

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Chapter Fourteen

I nodded in return. “Mr. Denis.”

Molodzinski hovered just inside the door, clasping his hands. Any moment, he’d bolt. “You have come to discuss business, Captain? Perhaps, you would like to speak privately?”

His eyes begged me to agree. “Of course,” I said. I bowed to Denis. “Will you excuse us?”

Denis didn’t move. “Whatever business you have, you may discuss before me. I am discreet.”

Molodzinski began, “Perhaps the captain would be more comfortable …”

“He means it’s none of your affair,” I said bluntly to Denis. “Which it is not.”

Denis gave me a weary look. “Captain, I will not allow you to spirit Mr. Molodzinski away in hopes he can elude me. He cannot. State your business—it is bound to be of interest to me as well.”

I did not want Denis in this. I hoped to give Hartman peace now that he knew his daughter was dead. Denis was excellent at bringing wrongdoers to justice—when he wished—but Hartman hardly needed Denis in his affairs.

“Perhaps I will call on you another time,” I said to Molodzinski. “Or, you are welcome in South Audley Street.”

“No.” Molodzinski gazed at me in desperation. “Please, do not go.”

“He fears I will strike him dead the moment your back is turned,” Denis said. “And I might. You should stay, Captain, and prevent the tragedy.”

Denis’s sense of humor was even more obscure than my wife’s.

“Very well,” I said, losing my patience. I thumped myself onto a hard wooden chair, one of the few in the rather barren, high-ceiling room. The windows were open, early summer warmth and the stench of the city floating in. “Mr. Molodzinski, I would like to know all you can tell me about a shopkeeper called Joseph Hartman and his family. His daughter has been killed, and I am seeking information about her and her last days.”

Molodzinski blinked. “His daughter was killed? Dear, dear. Poor man.”

“Do you know him?”

Molodzinski, despite his nervousness, looked amused. “Because he is a Jew, as am I? I do not believe I’ve even heard of him.”

I suppressed an impatient noise. “No, I mean because you are a man of business to shopkeepers like him, and you might know who handles his affairs. I cannot ask Hartman himself, because he has warned me off.”

“Ah.” Molodzinski looked a bit more interested. “Perhaps I could make inquiries.”

Denis broke in. “This is the same dead woman you came to me about? Or have you found another unfortunate in the meantime?”

“The same,” I said tightly. “I have managed to discover her identity without you, thank you.”

Denis’s eyes went colder still. “I know what Mr. Brewster did. I am not happy with him, as I have explained to him.”

I thought of Brewster’s exhausted look this morning and wondered now whether he’d been able to go home at all. Had he spent the hours between seeing Donata safely to our house and my leaving the next morning being berated by Denis? Denis did not seem particularly fatigued, but then, he never did.

“Mr. Brewster, in his own way, has honor,” I said. “Allow him to rest from time to time, and see his wife.”

“Mr. Brewster’s loyalties have become a bit fluid,” Denis said. “Please remember that I pay his wages.”

“Yes, you are the master of us all,” I said, my hot temper bubbling high. Molodzinski gave me a fearful look, but I could not cease. I pointed at him. “Whatever this man has done cannot be worth you coming here yourself to reprimand him. I do my best to vex you all the time, but he is rather harmless.”

“He is a murderer, Lacey,” Denis said.

I stopped. I’d been drawing a breath to contradict him, and I nearly choked on it.

I swung back to Molodzinski. His face was red, his dark eyes full of shame. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Not on purpose.”

My words halted again. Manslaughter then? And why, if he’d killed a person, intentionally or no, was he free to go about his business?

“If you were acquitted,” I said slowly, “then Mr. Denis should have no hold on you.”

“He has never been arrested,” Denis said. “The only one who knows he killed this man is myself. And now, you.”

Molodzinski took a step toward Denis. “You promised your silence, that you would not betray me to the magistrates. Gave your word.”

Denis transferred his frosty look to Molodzinski. “In return for your services when I wished them, yes. Which you have been reluctant to furnish. But Captain Lacey is not a magistrate. If he decides to keep your secret, it will be safer with him than anyone in London.”

I tried to ignore Denis while I faced Molodzinski. “Will you tell me what happened?” This man did not look like a killer, not even an accidental one.

Molodzinski let out a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots. “I was approached by some … men. Four of them. One was a client. They wanted me to embezzle from two other of my clients, to ruin the gentlemen, and of course pass on their money to them. When I continually refused, they sent a ruffian to persuade me. I fought with him, and he fell down the stairs. Broke his neck.”

Molodzinski snapped his mouth shut, as though reminding himself to say nothing further. A plausible tale, but I wondered whether there was more to it.

“These men who’d asked you to embezzle must have noticed that the ruffian they sent to you had died,” I said.

Molodzinski shuddered. “I’d had some dealings with Mr. Denis in the past—the money I told you I borrowed from him. I asked for his help.”

Denis finished. “I made certain that the ruffian’s death was not connected to Mr. Molodzinski, and that the consortium took their business elsewhere.”

I imagine Denis willingly performing these tasks in order to have a man of business in his pocket. Though Molodzinski was not wealthy, he’d have access to information, could pry information out of other men of business, and would know of dealings on the exchanges, perhaps before others became aware of them.

What Denis prized above all else was knowledge.

The fact that Denis was here now told me that perhaps Molodzinski was reluctant to give Denis this information.

“I understand your quandary,” I said to Molodzinski. “I will keep your confidence.”

Molodzinski looked surprised but grateful. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“It seems your debt is extending to many,” Denis said in a dry voice. “But please, do what Captain Lacey asks of you. His intentions are usually benign, even if he is insistent.”

My annoyance returned. “He is obviously an honorable man,” I said, pointing my walking stick in Molodzinski’s direction. “He defended himself against a pack of criminals—very different from him striking down an innocent. You would do a kindness to leave him be.”

Denis regarded me stonily. “My business would be in pieces if I followed your precepts. Forgive me if I do not rush to obey you. Please, continue your errand here. I will deal with Mr. Molodzinski later. I cannot hope to prevail against your tenacity when you wish to discover answers.”

I was not flattered, but glad he would not hinder Molodzinski in responding to my questions.

Denis made no move to leave, however. He stood like a monolith while I turned back to Molodzinski and explained the circumstances with Hartman and his daughter.

Molodzinski lost his fearfulness of me as he listened, and his expression changed to one of sympathy.

“I can inquire, Captain. I laughed at you when I accused you of coming to me, one Jew to track down another, but it is true that our community in London is rather small. I do not know this man personally, but I know how to find others who will. I must warn you, not everyone will welcome an outsider asking questions. I am pleased I live in this country in this time, when we are not being expelled or imprisoned simply for being Jewish, but insults come readily to Gentiles, and we are not wholly embraced.”

“I do understand,” I said. “Though you might not think it. I have knowledge of what it is to be on the outside looking in. Lack of funds has a way of separating a man, even when others pretend it does not.”

Molodzinski looked surprised. “You live in a sumptuous enough house.” He hesitated. “Though so does the Prince of Wales, and he is up to his ears in debt.”

“I married well,” I said, my smile wry. “But my station in life is below my wife’s, so I am looked at askance.”

“True, wealth will ingratiate a man when all other factors about him would normally repulse.” Molodzinski shook his head. “That is the way of the world.”

He reiterated that he’d ask about Hartman for me, and send word to my rooms in Grimpen Lane. The interview was at an end.

I was reluctant to leave him alone with Denis, at Denis’s mercy. Though I did not believe Denis would allow my presence to stop him meting out punishment as he thought fit, he might at least hesitate.

Denis, however, took up the hat he’d left on a table and motioned me to leave with him. I thanked Molodzinski again, shook his hand, and left the office.

My hackney waited, with Brewster lounging against it, talking with the coachman. Brewster went at once to Denis when he stepped outside—they exchanged a few words I could not hear, then Brewster came back to the hackney, handed up coin, and dismissed the coach.

The hackney drove on, leaving me with Denis, as Denis’s coach pulled forward to retrieve him.

In a few minutes, I once more found myself inside Denis’s austere but elegant carriage, facing the man who controlled most of the criminal element in London.

“I will not apologize for defending Mr. Molodzinski,” I said before Denis could speak. “He was in an unfortunate situation, and you took advantage of him.”

“I did indeed,” Denis said without changing expression. “But I did not bring you with me to rebuke you. I want you to tell me about the attack on your son in the park.”

I started. “Why? Brewster must have reported it to you.”

“He did. He was quite angry about it. But I would like the matter described from your point of view.”

“I saw the man coming and thought nothing of it.” I related what had happened, ending with Peter’s assessment that the horseflesh was costly.

Denis tapped one finger to the gold head of his walking stick. “A member of the haut ton attempting to knock small boys from horses? This is a strange occurrence.”

“Hardly one for humor. If his sack had hit Peter, Peter might have been seriously hurt.”

“I was not laughing. I was remarking on the incongruity. Oddities interest me. You are correct that the place to start looking for the culprit is the horse. Even if the man did not own the horse, a groom or stable lad will remember him hiring it.”

“Possibly. I have already sent Bartholomew to the stables in and about Hyde Park to make inquiries. I have no doubt that he and his brother will quickly find something for me. It was a fine hunter, and fresh—the rider could not have ridden it far that day. Likely it was cared for nearby.”

Denis gave me a nod. “I agree with your logic.”

“May I ask why you are interested? Why should an attack on my stepson distress you?”

Denis moved his hand on the walking stick, his fingers caressed by his skin-tight kid gloves. “I have become quite protective of you. A blow to your beloved family would cripple you. That would lose me a valuable asset. Also, my enemies might attempt to reach me by using you.”

My heart beat thick and hard. “Cease requesting my help, and your enemies will have nothing to hold over you. I refuse to let any of my family come to harm because of you.”

Denis flicked his fingers. “I would have considered your debt to me paid had you not sought my assistance so many times in these past few years. And I do like to keep an eye on you. However, I do not truly believe this is the work of my enemies. They are not so crude.”

“Not a thought that comforts me,” I said. “I agree, it was clumsy. Which is why I suspect one of small Peter’s relations is at the heart of it. Someone suddenly wants to be Viscount Breckenridge.”

“A comfortable and lucrative peerage,” Denis agreed. “I will assist you in unraveling that problem, but I advise you drop investigating the shopkeeper’s dead daughter.”

“No,” I said. “Her killer should not go free.”

“You are willing to let Molodzinski go free. Even when he admitted himself he’d taken a life.”

“Entirely different. I’ve done battle. I know the fear, the desperation of fighting for one’s life. In my case I was commended for my bravery. Whoever killed Miss Hartman was a coward. What could she have done to warrant such a thing?”

“Not all ladies are kind, gentle creatures,” Denis said. “Perhaps she angered her killer, threatened him in some way, with words alone. Made him fear her.”

“Why he did it is immaterial,” I said in a hard voice. “He should have found another way to resolve his quarrel with her. The blow was hard, and not accidental.”

“How can you be certain?” Denis asked, eyeing me. “Something might have fallen on her, or she hit her head as she went down.”

“Your surgeon says no. He said that her falling would have crushed her more, looked different—how, I do not know. He said it was a strike, swift and hard, with a thin, blunt weapon, like a poker or crowbar.”

Denis nodded. “He is likely correct. He is an expert on wounds.”

I studied Denis in curiosity. “And you will tell me no more about him?”

“No.” Denis lifted his walking stick, a heavy thing, its shaft of polished mahogany, and tapped the roof of the coach.

Immediately we halted. I glanced out and saw we’d reached the end of Fleet Street, at Temple Bar, the gate to the city designed by Sir Christopher Wren to replace the more ancient gate destroyed in the Great Fire.

“Good day to you, Captain,” Denis said.

There were shouts behind and around us as the coach blocked traffic. Brewster wrenched open the door, reaching in big hands to pull me out, not bothering to bring down the steps.

The snarls quieted a little when Brewster glared, but whether the passers-by understood who was in the coach or not, I could not be certain. The carters and draymen of London cared little who got in their way—they were evil-tempered to one and all.

Brewster slammed the door, half dragged me aside, and Denis’s coach moved on.

***

Because I was relatively close to Covent Garden, I decided to walk to my rooms, on the off chance that Hartman himself had sent word to me there.

When I reached it by way of Drury Lane and Russel Street, Mrs. Beltan, who kept my mail in my absence, handed me letters, but told me no shopkeeper had come to call. Nor had she received any message from one, written or otherwise.

I was about to leave the warm, bread-scented shop when she stopped me. “There was a young lady, however. I say young—perhaps getting on for middle age.”

“A lady?” I lifted my brows. “Did she leave a name?”

“She did not,” Mrs. Beltan said. “Refused to. But she said she’d try again today. I offered to send for you, but oddly, she did not wish me to do that either.” She shook her head, turning back to the line of women purchasing bread for the day’s meals.

Mrs. Beltan was too busy to give me the particulars of the lady, so I ascended to my rooms to see if she’d left me some message.

She had. I found scrawled on a scrap of paper, set in the center of my writing table, Will return at 11 am.

It was ten of the clock now. I crumpled the paper, thrust it into my pocket, and sat down to read the rest of my letters and wait.

Chapter Fifteen

I heard Brewster haul himself up the steps. He entered without knocking, balancing two mugs of coffee in one great hand.

“So you’re waiting, then.” He thunked a mug to my writing table, the hot coffee splashing droplets to the letters.

“Go if you like,” I said. “She left a note that she’d return at eleven. Time for you to do your morning shopping.”

Brewster gave me an evil look. He moved to the door and leaned against the doorframe, sipping the hot brew.

“She might be someone come to do you ’arm,” he said.

“I will attempt to defend myself.” I began opening the letters and sifting through them.

“She might bring help to best you. I was watching the rider yesterday, Captain. It could have been a woman.”

I thought of the lithe and athletic way the fellow had ridden, light in the saddle, agile with the reins, moving as one with the horse. “One hell of a good rider,” I said. “Perhaps, in addition to finding the horse, I should inquire about the reputation of skilled horsemen. Even the best might have found those moves difficult.”

“His nibs has it aright. You are too trusting of the fairer sex.” Brewster made the pronouncement decidedly. “I’ve seen women vaulting onto and off horses like nothing, hanging upside down from their bellies even. Acrobats and traveling performers can do it. I’ve seen women dressed as men do all sorts of riding feats, and then reveal themselves to be ladies to the astonishment of the crowd.”

I believed him. Brewster and his wife highly enjoyed entertainments, whether inside theatres or on the streets, or performed by strolling players at outlying inns.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” I gave him a nod. “Thank you.”

“So this lady what ran down your son might be coming here to shoot you.” Brewster dug his shoulder into the doorframe. “I’ll stay.”

“Why did you tell Denis you’d found the surgeon for me?” I asked curiously. “I did not plan to mention it to him.”

“He’d have found out, one way or another. He always does, don’t he? Best it came from me, straight up, than he visits my house and asks why I lied to him.” Brewster gave a slight shiver. “Facing him down and confessing is much better.”

“My apologies. I know he was angry with you. I’ll speak to him.”

Brewster barked a laugh. “Won’t do no good. The deed is done, he is angry, he’ll punish the both of us, and we’ll not do it again. That is the way of him. Straightforward.”

“Unreasonable. Even I see that the world is not black and white. Some things must be done, whether we, or Denis, like it or not. A man’s actions do not always reflect his motives, or what is in his heart.”

“He’s always had to see it, though, as you say, black and white, hasn’t he? Or he’d have been dead a long time ago.”

I agreed that Denis’s early life had been difficult, and he’d been saved only by his quick mind and complete ruthlessness.

“He and I will always disagree about many things,” I concluded. “Still, I will speak to him about you. You’ve been of great help to me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Brewster said darkly. “The point is, he pays a good wage. I’d rather not lose my post, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Very well.” I returned to my letters. “See that you don’t pocket anything priceless while you’re here, won’t you?”

I heard the grin in his voice. “You ain’t got much, I have to tell you, Captain.”

He knew exactly what incident I referred to. A glance at him showed he’d folded his arms tightly, as though ready to prove he wasn’t touching anything.

My first few letters were nothing remarkable—a bill for meals at a nearby public house, a note from my father’s man of business answering a question I’d asked him about my property in Norfolk—namely, how much land around the house was actually still mine.

I also had a breezy but polite letter from one Frederick Hilliard, an actor and famous travesti from Drury Lane theatre. He thanked me for my introduction to Leland Derwent, and told me they’d become good friends.

Leland still grieves, and always will, I am afraid. I have taken it upon myself to cheer him, but not to chivvy him, if you understand. He can speak to me of the one he loved, as he can speak to no other. He regards you fondly, sweet lad.

Freddie Hilliard was a tall, solid-bodied, deep-voiced man who could transform himself into a woman onstage with amazing verisimilitude. He had his audiences roaring with laughter, or weeping when he portrayed a woman of deep sorrow. I admired his talent, and he’d been of great help during Leland’s tragedy earlier this year. I agreed Leland would find comfort in him.

I pocketed the missive to share with Donata, broke the seal on the last letter, and froze.

You fought well in the park, proved yourself to be a fine cavalryman. But this does not mean the man who came back from the dead is the true Gabriel Lacey. The price of my silence has increased.

I could not stop a sharp intake of breath. Brewster was at my side in an instant, his large fingers pulling the letter from my grasp.

“Ye see?” He said, reading the words. “It was a woman in the park, and she slipped in this letter when she was up here.”

“It came by post.” I indicated the mark that the letter had been pre-paid.

“Hmm,” Brewster said, unconvinced. “What does it mean, the man who came back from the dead? When did you die?”

I shrugged. “On the Peninsula. Captured and dragged off by French soldiers and made sport of. It’s when I got this.” I tapped my ruined left knee. “But I assure you, it was I who made it back to camp, after a long struggle. Part of me did die on that journey, but not in the way the writer implies.”

Brewster peered from the letter to my leg and back again. “Why does he—or she—want you not to be you?”

“Who can say? To discredit Donata? To have me arrested for fraud? Me defrauding the new Viscount Breckenridge would be a great scandal. I was present at the former Viscount Breckenridge’s death after all, which has been pointed out in the letters.” I let out a sigh. “I believe, though, that this blackguard simply wants money.”

Brewster dropped the letter back to the writing table. “I suppose you could have murdered Breckenridge, then taken up with his wife—not much grieving on her part from what I heard. You started squiring her about not long after, you know. You have been uncommon clever, Captain.”

I looked up to rebuke his teasing, and realized we were not alone.

I had not heard anyone enter over Brewster’s rumbling voice, but I now saw a woman standing in the doorway to the stairwell, her quiet presence unassuming.

I rose quickly to my feet, stepped too hard on my bad leg, and bit back a grunt as I reached for my walking stick. Brewster swung around, and in one step, had himself between me and the woman.

She looked nothing like an adept rider who could hang underneath a horse. The lady was past her first youth but still relatively young, in her thirties, I’d judge. She was plump, gently so. The sleeves of her morning gown clung to her round arms then tapered to strong wrists and fleshy hands in gloves.

The hair under her small-brimmed bonnet was dark brown, the green ribbon of the hat matching the dark green of her simple but becoming gown. Having grown used to Donata and her exacting taste, I recognized that this woman had learned how to dress the very best for her means.

She had dark eyes, a pale face, a wide mouth, and a severe look. She was quite attractive, or would be but for the bleak anger and sorrow in her eyes.

“Captain Lacey?”

I bowed. “I am he. You are the lady who wishes to speak to me?”

The clock on my mantel began striking eleven, the bells of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, taking up its tune. She was exactly on time.

“Might I ask your name?” I went on.

The lady looked me over, as though trying to make up her mind about me, then Brewster. Her glance dismissed him as the hired help.

Not a lady of timid deference, I was understanding. She’d learned to face down the world without trembling.

“I am Miss Hartman,” she said. “I understand you revealed to my father that my sister, Judith, is dead.”

I straightened in astonishment. “Yes,” I said, finding the word hardly adequate.

“I also know my father bade you not to pursue the matter further.” Miss Hartman’s voice was hard. “I am here, contrary to my father’s wishes, to ask you to do just that.” She lifted her chin. “I know who killed my sister, and I want you to prove it.”