The Thames River Murders

  “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.”

  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 w
alked 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.”