The Thames River Murders (16 page)

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.”

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?”