The Thames River Murders (22 page)

So also had the anonymous letter-writer indicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to agree that this was true.

***

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

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

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

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

“Not quite,” I said as I reached him.

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

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

His blue eyes twinkled, and his grin was wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.”