The Thames River Murders (17 page)

“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.