Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

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Chapter Sixteen

Brewster and I both remained fixed in stunned silence. Miss Hartman’s green bodice rose with her breath, but her face was as chill as marble.

“Miss Hartman,” I finally managed. “Please, sit. Tell me all.”

She studied me a few moments longer, then she moved to a straight-backed chair at my table and lowered herself into it. She was so stiff that her own back barely touched that of the chair.

I signaled for Brewster to leave us. He did not look happy, but he walked out to the landing and closed the door behind him. He’d listen through it; I knew that.

I always found it interesting to observe which of my chairs my visitors selected. Those who had no shame in seeking out comfort chose the upholstered wing chair at the fireplace. Those who were more about business sat in one of the hard, wooden chairs from the seventeenth century. Those who were particularly nervous would remain standing altogether.

Miss Hartman gave me a chilly look as I sat down in the other hard, spindled chair and faced her.

“If you know who killed her,” I began, “why not go to the magistrates?”

“One must have evidence,” Miss Hartman answered crisply. “Or money to bring suit. I have neither. I only know. But I have heard through others that sometimes you, Captain, find ways to uncover proofs that the Runners can not.”

“Others have flattered me,” I said. “In this case, however, your determination and mine match. Who is this person you suspect?”

“Her husband.” The words came readily. “I see from your surprise that my father did not tell you she was married. But she was. Legitimately. In the eyes of the laws of England, I mean—not in the eyes of my father. Judith married a Gentile. She converted to become a member of the Church of England, and married him with banns read and the entire rigmarole. My father turned his back on her.”

My heartbeat quickened. “And the name of this husband?”

“Mr. Andrew Bennett. Oh, so very respectable. He married again, not two years after Judith disappeared. And then a third time. His second wife died as well.”

“I see.” I tried to stem my rising excitement. A man with too many wives in quick succession could be suspicious, or he could simply be unfortunate. Life was dangerous, illness happened all too often, as did accidents. A thrice-widowed man—or woman—was not uncommon. However, my interest perked at this gentleman who seemed to find wives so readily.

“You are skeptical,” Miss Hartman said. “But I know him. I could not say that his second wife died in unusual circumstances—she was very ill in the end—but I have my doubts. He certainly was quick to consider Judith dead and himself free to marry again.”

“A judge would have to agree that a missing woman was deceased,” I observed. “Time passing is only part of it.”

“I know.” Miss Hartman’s eyes snapped. “When Judith could not be found, Mr. Bennett concluded very quickly that she’d died—insisted within months that we give up hope. He lived with the woman who would be his second wife for two years before Judith was declared officially deceased and he could marry again.”

“Your sister’s marriage—this was the shame your father referred to?”

“The marriage, certainly. And the fact that Judith turned her back on her family. She had no use for us. She tried to convince my father to convert, to become more English, to shave his beard and be more ambitious. The ghettos of the Continent were of the past; the traditional ways were of the past. One must live in the present.”

Her anger was evident. “You do not share this view?” I asked gently.

“There is a saying—that one must not das Kind mit dem Bad ausschütten—throw the baby out with the bath. One can live well in London without ignoring one’s past.”

I preferred to ignore mine, but I knew what she meant. “Judith could not find the balance between two worlds?” When Miss Hartman’s eyes flickered, I stopped. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to use her given name.” It was not done unless a gentleman was a close friend of the family, and even then, only in proper circumstances.

“You mistake me, sir,” Miss Hartman said. “It is good to hear her name again. My father will not speak it. My mother would not before her death.”

“And your name?” I asked. “If I may be so bold as to inquire.”

For answer, she opened a small reticule that matched her gown and handed me a card. Miss Devorah Hartman.

Miss, I noted. Never married. I laid the card carefully on my writing table.

“Where might I find this Andrew Bennett?” I asked. “What is his profession?”

“He claimed to be a lecturer in Greek.” Miss Hartman’s voice was thick with cynicism. “He also said he knew Hebrew, which is how he came to be acquainted with my father. A scholar, he styled himself, though I’ve never seen him look at a book.” Her lip curled. “Mr. Bennett now lives in some leisure in Cavendish Square, in the house of his third wife. He acquired much money from his second wife, who’d inherited several thousand pounds before she died. His third wife must also have inherited something from a generous parent. I imagine you will find Mr. Bennett at home.”

The man sounded a bounder, if nothing else.

Then again, I, a penniless gentleman, had just married a widow of considerable fortune. I knew my reasons had nothing to do with her money, but those outside my circle of acquaintance—and a few within it—no doubt suspected me of financial ambition. Indeed, I was now receiving nasty letters about it.

“I will speak to him,” I said. “Be assured I do want to find your sister’s killer.”

“Well, you need look no further than Mr. Bennett.”

That remained to be seen. “What else can you tell me about your sister?” I asked.

Devorah’s eyes widened slightly. “Is there any reason to know? I care only for catching the man who ended her life.”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my impatience show, “but I might be able to snare him more readily if I know something about Judith. Mr. Bennett could have made certain to give himself an unbreakable alibi, or to destroy all evidence. I can’t bring him to trial without proof of a crime. Knowing more about your sister will help me question him.”

Devorah let out a sigh, though her sour look did not leave her. “Very well. Judith was a bit frivolous, as you no doubt guessed. She saw that becoming more Anglo would give her a wider circle of friends, more acceptance, more opportunity to enter the society she craved.

“She was not wrong. Though she had to endure cuts about being a Jewess, she happily put up with it to wear lovely ensembles, ride in Hyde Park, and be invited to soirees. We hadn’t the money to be accepted in aristocratic circles, but she reached as high as she could. Mr. Bennett being a gentleman and a scholar from a prestigious college helped.”

Devorah shook her head. “Besides this obstinacy, Judith was sweet-natured. She’d never hurt anyone on purpose. She cried when my father did not understand her wish to marry Bennett, but she was in love. She believed he’d come around when she had her first son.”

I remembered what the surgeon had said about Judith, that she’d borne no children. But she might have started one, the tiny thing washed away when she’d become bones.

“Was she increasing?” I asked, making my voice gentle.

“No.” Devorah was resolute. “Never. She and Bennett were married two years, but Judith never conceived. He blamed her, but … Bennett has never sired a child, to my knowledge, even after three marriages. I’m sure his seed is the culprit.”

Her cheeks burned red as she pronounced this, but she folded her lips, as though daring me to remark upon her impropriety.

A picture of Judith Hartman began to weave in my mind. Sweet-natured, wanting to move beyond what she saw as the confines of her life, and too trusting.

My own daughter was as sunny and trusting as I imagined Judith to be. I felt disquiet.

I comforted myself by reflecting that Gabriella was different in one respect—she’d told me she preferred her quiet country life to that of high society.

But then, I, her father, had been born to the correct religion in a country in which it was a great asset to belong to the national church. Judith had converted to the C of E in order for her marriage to be accepted in her husband’s world.

I knew full well that plenty of people declared they were “married” without the bother of the formalities. They lived in a semblance of wedlock without it being legally acknowledged, though no one said much.

Judith had not been willing to do this. She’d wanted to become Anglo and Mrs. Andrew Bennett, leaving her Jewish life behind.

“Thank you, Miss Hartman,” I said. “I will visit Mr. Bennett and see what I can do.”

She did not express gratitude or rhapsodize about my kindness. Devorah simply rose, clutched her reticule, gave me a polite nod, and made for the door.

Brewster opened it for her from the other side with the attentiveness of a well-trained footman. He stepped back as she walked out, me stumping after her.

“How may I send word to you?” I asked as she descended the stairs. “I assume you do not wish your father to know of this visit.”

Devorah paused halfway down. “Indeed, no. Write any message for me and leave it with the bakeshop woman below. I beg you not to call upon my father, or attempt to visit him in his home, or even to walk into our neighborhood.” She gave me another stiff bow. “Good day, Captain.”

She continued down the stairs, her heels clicking on the bare, polished wood. A draft blew upward as she opened the door below, then cut off when she slammed it.

“Whew,” Brewster said. “A cold fish.”

“I imagine life has not been easy for her.” I ascended the few steps I’d gone down, reentered my rooms, and moved to the window. Miss Hartman marched down the narrow cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane for Russell Street, her bonnet moving neither left nor right as she went.

“Life ain’t easy for most,” Brewster said. “You either learn to live in spite of it, or become so brittle it breaks you.”

“Her parents likely expected her to fill the role of the lost sister,” I said. “To become her, perhaps. And were disappointed when she could not.”

The low crown of Miss Hartman’s bonnet bobbed slightly, then was lost as she turned to the more crowded street.

“Jews are hard on their women,” Brewster said with an air of one who knew the way of the world. “Expect them to be pillars of virtue. Then more or less bargain away their daughters to their friends when it’s time for them to marry. They hide their wives—they can’t even sit with the men in their house of worship. It’s men in one world, women in another.”

“The haut ton is not much different,” I felt obliged to point out, though I had no idea whether his assessment of a Hebrew woman’s life was correct. “Men have their clubs; women organize fetes.”

“Ye live separate lives, that is true, but ye don’t sequester your wives. Your lady gads about as she pleases, without you putting the shackles on her.” His lips twitched. “’Tis more the other way ’round.”

I gave him a severe look. “I will thank you to keep your opinions on my marriage to yourself. Not all of us can be as idyllically happy as you.”

Brewster looked pleased. “My Em’s a rare one, that’s for certain. Now, are you about to rush to Cavendish Square and look up this Mr. Bennett?”

“Not immediately,” I said. “I’d like to ask Pomeroy’s opinion of all this. If Mr. Bennett is careless enough to lose two wives, one completely disappearing, the magistrates might have taken notice. Not necessarily, but I’d like to find out.”

“Well.” Brewster ran his hand through his hair and replaced his hat. “If you’re going to Bow Street, then I’ll bugger off home for a few minutes. I haven’t seen me wife for a time. Mr. Denis kept me with him all night.”

“Sleep as much as you like,” I said. “You have no need to accompany me. Cavendish Square is not Seven Dials.”

Brewster snorted. “Captain, you could find trouble inside St. James’s Palace. Likely more than you could in Seven Dials. I’ll be going with you.”

With that, he settled his hat more firmly on his head, marched down the stairs, and out.

He could have napped in my bedchamber or upstairs in the attics, but I knew the real reason for his going. I didn’t blame him. Emily Brewster was a fine woman, indeed.

***

Milton Pomeroy, my sergeant until 1814, now a famed Bow Street Runner, was not in the magistrate’s house when I entered it. Timothy Spendlove, unfortunately, was.

I was glad Brewster had gone. Spendlove might have come up with an excuse to arrest him, knowing he was a hired ruffian for Denis. I knew he always looked for an excuse to arrest me.

“Captain.” His hail stopped me as I was leaving, having ascertained that Pomeroy was not in.

Spendlove’s hair and long side whiskers were a dark red, his face completely covered with freckles, his eyes light blue. Spendlove was a big man, of my height and build, and had a voice as strong as Pomeroy’s, though he liked to lower it to intimidating tones.

“What brings you to the magistrate’s house?” Spendlove asked. “Come to give yourself up?”

Chapter Seventeen

I did not necessarily wish to reveal to Spendlove all that I was doing. On the other hand, I could not think of a man who would be more dogged in bringing Mr. Bennett to justice, if Bennett had indeed killed Judith.

Then again, Spendlove was ruthless. He might go to Hartman and threaten him until he agreed to prosecute Bennett. Spendlove would reap a reward if he got Bennett convicted. Pomeroy, then, would never forgive me for bringing a good case to any Runner but him.

But overall, the case was Thompson’s, and his decision. I had no patience with the ambitions of Spendlove and the Runners. Nor did I want them to make Hartman any more miserable than I’d already done.

I lifted my walking stick in a half salute. “I will call on Pomeroy later,” I said and turned to leave.

“I heard of the attack on young Lord Breckenridge,” Spendlove called after me. His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of every patroller and criminal in the hall and on the staircase. “Bad business, young lordships run down in full daylight, in public. That what you came to talk to Pomeroy about? Any idea who did it?”

“Not as yet,” I said, my words clipped.

“I’d take care, were I you.” Spendlove’s eyes glittered with something I couldn’t decipher. “You never know when a villain like that might strike again.”

I frowned at him, but Spendlove only gave me a nod and spun away to move deeper into the house.

Outside the sun was warm but not hot, the sky full of soft white clouds, the day cheerful. I would not let an encounter with Spendlove ruin it.

The letter in my pocket, which I’d planned to show to Pomeroy after I asked him about Bennett, had already ruined it. Threats to my family incensed me.

I did not care so much for a madman going about proclaiming I was not Gabriel Lacey—I had witnesses, including Pomeroy himself, to counter the claim—but I did care for one coming at Peter, and talking about the price of my silence. Bloody hell.

I’d given instructions to Barnstable to keep my family home when they woke. After I spoke to Mr. Bennett in Cavendish Square, I would make certain we all spent a day indoors. Donata would chafe, but this newest letter increased my alarm.

I hired a hackney, not bothering to wait for Brewster’s return, and took myself to Cavendish Square.

Cavendish Square held a length of large, old, colonnaded houses surrounding an oval green, which was fenced off from the traffic around it. The place had been highly fashionable in the last century, housing such people as George Romney and Horatio Nelson and his wife. Bennett had done well for himself indeed.

The house in which Mr. Bennett dwelled with his third wife had an ostentatious facade with many windows, ionic columns flanking the door, and a pediment capping the first floor. Very Greek, very austere.

I wondered who the house belonged to. Women rarely owned property outright—they could inherit a trust that kept property for them, usually set up by fathers or grandfathers to ensure the females of the family weren’t preyed upon by unscrupulous fortune-hunters. When a woman married, all her property went to her husband. In my case, Donata’s money and anywhere she lived was controlled by several trusts, so I couldn’t touch any of it.

I had an allowance from one of these trusts, which was all I needed. Donata’s father and his man of business had hammered out the agreements with me before our marriage, and I’d readily signed.

My man of business had been unhappy with me for not fighting for more money, but at my stage of life, I wanted only enough to not have to scrabble for my supper. Any grandiose ideas of amassing a fortune had died into flickers long ago.

Mr. Bennett’s wife had either inherited this house in a trust, or, like Donata’s, it had been set up for her to live in for her lifetime. I hoped so, for her sake. Mr. Bennett’s wives had the habit of dying—if she had a lifetime lease, when she was gone, Mr. Bennett would be out.

A correct footman answered the door, took my card, showed no interest in it, and ushered me to a reception room.

The house reminded me of a museum. The wide front hall led to a grand staircase of polished dark wood, leading up into dark reaches. The hall itself, and the reception room, were silent, dimly lit, and held a jumble of treasures from the past.

Heavy cabinets with glass doors lined the hall, and treated me to a display of ancient maritime instruments—an astrolabe, a sextant, a primitive compass, a telescope. More nautical trinkets filled other cabinets—carvings from shark’s teeth, stones from distant shores, a pressed exotic flower, which was tall, orange, and spikelike.

Wooden carvings done by the natives of some South Sea land were on display next to lacquer pitchers and bowls, along with porcelain that looked distinctly Chinese. Grenville could likely have identified the countries and time periods of all the objects.

The reception room contained India. My time in that area had been mostly on the battlefields, marching and fighting in perpetual heat and constant rain. But I remembered the strings of bells adorning elephants—bells everywhere, in fact—woven wicker baskets and furniture, peacock feathers, silken carpets, bright silks draped over the furniture and hanging from the walls.

This collection had been here for some time. The silks were beginning to fade and the bells were dusty, as though the current inhabitants of the house did not treasure them as had their original owners.

The footman returned to retrieve me, and I followed him upstairs to a parlor in the front of the house.

China and other countries of mainland Asia prevailed here—porcelain bowls and vases, several tall screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bronzes of the round-bellied Buddha, and figures of many-armed gods, including a woman with two rows of breasts and flames coming from her mouth.

“Kali, goddess of destruction,” a light voice said behind me.

I turned to find a woman in a long-sleeved gray gown, her chest and shoulders covered with a fichu. The fichu was a bit out of date, but this lady seemed somewhat old-fashioned herself.

She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, the same age as Devorah Hartman. She wore a soft cap over her hair, which was a rich chocolate brown, and her eyes were deep blue. She studied me with an air of quiet dignity, but not much curiosity.

I thought it odd that such a genteel woman would not object to the bronzes all over the room depicting nudity in male and female figures. I caught sight of a small figurine in a cabinet behind her depicting an erotic act—a man standing on his hands, his severely elongated penis reaching to the open mouth of a woman. The lady in front of me, proper, serene, and modestly covered, did not even notice it.

“Mrs. Bennett?” I asked.

“I am she.” The lady had my card in her hand. “Captain Gabriel Lacey. You wished to speak to my husband?”

“Is he not at home?” I asked. She could have sent the footman with the message. Why receive me? Alone?

“No, he is out. On business.” The last word was delivered defiantly, as though I had come to accuse Mr. Bennett of being on a frivolous errand.

“I can return later,” I said. “I have no wish to disturb you.”

“Or you can speak to me. I have Mr. Bennett’s full confidence.”

More defiance. I was interested.

I swept a glance around the room. “Is one of your family a world traveler?” I knew Bennett hadn’t collected these things. They’d sat here for a long time, become so much a part of the fabric of this house they were passed by without attention.

“My father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.” Mrs. Bennett’s voice took on a touch of pride. “They were prominent in the East India Company. They took many voyages of both exploration and trade, and as you can see, returned with a multitude of treasures.”

She opened her fingers to gesture to the room, like a guide in her personal museum.

“It is quite a collection,” I said. “I have a friend who also acquires things on world travel. When I was a traveller, I hadn’t the foresight to pick up anything at all.”

“Mr. Grenville, you mean.” A smile touched her mouth. “I have heard of you, his dearest friend. Also his famous collection, which, I can assure you does not match my family’s in quantity. My great-grandfather was Captain Woolwich, my grandfather was also a ship’s captain, and my father.”

She was very proud, and I did not confess I’d never heard of the Woolwichs, great merchant captains of the East India Company. My life had been absorbed by the army, and many soldiers considered the merchantmen soft and self-indulgent. We were no doubt completely wrong, but all groups of men believe they are superior to others who are not fortunate enough to be among them.

“And Mr. Bennett?” I asked. “Is he a seafaring man?”

The woman sounded amused. “Indeed no. Mr. Bennett has his feet firmly on dry land, which I appreciate in him. The sea is romantic, I suppose, but one does not see one’s husband much. I prefer a husband who remains in London.”

She would have watched her mother say good-bye to her father often, and the man stay away for long stretches of time.

“I understand,” I said. “Difficult for a wife to accompany her husband on long sea voyages. Your father left all this to you?” I looked around again. My impertinent question perhaps would be forgiven if I seemed sufficiently awed by the treasures, many of which could be bought cheaply in crowded Asian bazaars.

“Left to me?” Mrs. Bennett looked puzzled, then she laughed. Her plainness vanished as her face lit. Perhaps I wronged Bennett—he might have fallen in love with her laughter instead of her obvious fortune.

“My father is not deceased, Captain,” she said. “He is upstairs, in his rooms. He would like to meet you, a friend of the famous Mr. Grenville. Will you come up?”