The Thames River Murders (23 page)

I slid my notebook into my pocket and took up my hat. “If Mr. Stein is at the synagogue, then I will take myself there and wait for him to come out.”

“Will you? Do you know what he looks like?”

I deflated. “No, I don’t. But perhaps Hartman will point him out to me.”

“Hartman might shoot you on the spot. Never mind.” Molodzinski pulled on his gloves. “I will go with you, ask about Mr. Stein for you, and prevent you having Hartman’s fist up your nose. Or his eldest daughter’s—she sounds formidable.”

“She is,” I agreed.

“Then it is settled. I will protect you from the wrath of Miss Hartman.”

Chuckling, Molodzinski led the way from the cellar back to the main floor of the Bow Street house.
 

Outside, the clouds had gathered to threaten more rain, but it was still dry, warm, and a bit sticky.
 

Later this summer, once the Season was officially over, we would repair first to Norfolk to see the ongoing work on my ancestral home, then visit Donata’s family in Oxfordshire. We’d journey from there to Hampshire to the Breckenridge estate, which I’d never seen. I looked forward to cool country breezes and long rides on horseback, taking my ease from the crowded city.

The crowded city now pressed upon us. On Saturday, those of the Christian faith were working, hurrying, shopping, readying themselves for their one day of rest a week.
 

I could not censure Molodzinski for not attending his house of worship today, because I, cradle-born to the C of E, spent my Sundays with my feet up at home, not racing to the nearest church to listen to the vicar’s hour-long sermon.

The airless hackney lurched through streets at a slow pace, taking us too near the river for my taste. Molodzinski pointedly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and flapped it in front of his nose. That appendage was less swollen now, as was his eye, though his bruises from Denis’s men were still dark.

We emerged into the City and made for Cornhill, passing Molodzinski’s place of work, and through Leadenhall into Aldgate, east of Aldgate High Street, where Judith had last been seen.
 

A turning from Aldgate, called Duke’s Place, housed what was known as the Great Synagogue. Another synagogue stood further up the road—Bevis Marks—but Molodzinski confidently steered me into Duke’s Place. What the difference was between the two I did not wish to profess my ignorance and ask.

I had passed this synagogue whenever I had dealings in this part of London, but aside from a few curious glances, I’d never given it much thought. The building was quietly unpretentious in the Adam style, with flights of steps leading to an arched portico, above which were many-paned windows.

Apparently I could enter as a visitor, and as I moved into the interior, I removed my hat.

“Heads remained covered, Captain,” Molodzinski said in a quiet voice. Startled, I replaced my hat on my head, feeling odd to do so, and followed him in.

The service had already begun. Molodzinski slipped us to a bench in the back, and we sat quietly.

I looked around in wonder. We were in a lofty room that rose three stories above us, many arched windows letting in soft daylight. As was the outside, the inside was subdued yet beautifully elegant. The walls were pale, the flat corbeled ceiling softly arched around its edges. Enormous chandeliers hung from this ceiling, and I amused myself trying to count the candles in their many tiers.
 

In the center of the house was a sort of platform, under another chandelier, enclosed by a railing, where men stood to read or chant. Beyond them, on the far end of the room was an arched recess, flanked by columns and encircled by a low gold screen. No one went near this place, which had been treated with the reverence of an altar, but I knew it was not one. Perhaps it was the place where they kept the holy books, but I wasn’t certain.

Brewster had been correct when he’d said that the men and women were separated for the service. On the ground floor, where Molodzinski and I sat, were only men. I looked up at the gallery that encircled the first floor to see the ladies sitting behind a railing, their colorful gowns welcome hues in this place of white.

A few of the women peered curiously down at me, likely wondering who was this stiff Anglo in their midst. I spied Devorah Hartman among them, but she did not look at me—I could not tell whether she’d noticed me at all. She had her head bowed, her gaze downward, her eyes possibly closed.
 

I looked for Mr. Hartman among the men, but there were too many here today for me to distinguish him.

In the middle platform, a man—a cantor, I supposed—began to sing.

A curious thing happened. I could not understand one word of his chant, sung in a clear, beautiful tenor, but I felt peace steal over me. Around me, heads were bowed, men studying books in their hands or with eyes closed in prayer.

In the light, the calm, the air, cooled by the openness of the space, the thick walls protectively between me and the noise and stink of the city, I slipped into a state of great ease. My limbs relaxed; the nagging pain that was my constant companion, fell away.

I floated on the music, lifted by a service I could not begin to follow.

My understanding mattered little, I realized. I’d watched natives of India kneel in reverence before gleaming statues of ancient gods, offering food that could ill be spared, or flowers, or simply pressing their hands together and bowing in prayer. I’d seen Mohammedans in the north of India likewise lost in blissful prayer, bent to the floor on their carpets.

It didn’t matter, I’d realized then, that the precepts of our religions were different. These men around me believed in the same God I did, even if they did not believe the Lord Jesus Christ to be the son of that God. We were lifted together by the beauty of the voice that sang the words, the sweet air that floated around us, and the light of the many candles.

Or perhaps I was simply swept up in the beauty and serenity of it all. I understood why men became religious—if I could feel this ease, this sensation of being cradled in gentle warmth all the time, I would abandon my life and become a hermit and a mystic.

I could imagine what Donata would have to say about that. The image of her made me smile, and give up my sudden inclination to monkhood. I settled in and simply enjoyed the service.

I did not want this tranquility to come to an end, but finally, Molodzinski indicated it was time to leave. I rose with the others and filed out of the lovely hall into daylight.

The sounds of the City came back to me, and unfortunately, the smell. I again thought of country breezes with regret.

Molodzinski was speaking to a knot of men, greeting them, laughing when they expressed surprise to see him there. He introduced me, and I shook hands with several gentlemen, who welcomed me politely. As we exchanged pleasantries, one of the men gestured to another walking out into the courtyard.

“There’s Mr. Stein,” he said, and beckoned him over.

Stein was of an age with Andrew Bennett and Devorah. They would have all been very young when Judith died, in their early twenties. Though some men did make their careers and fortunes by the time they were twenty-two, looking back from my decrepit age of forty, I knew how stupidly childish one who’d just come into his majority could be.

Itzak Stein had hair a few shades lighter than Devorah Hartman’s, wide brown eyes, and a soft face. His firm mouth, though, showed me he was not weak of character, even if he looked a bit like a calf. He was clean-shaven and wore a suit whose modest cut even Grenville would approve.

“Captain Lacey,” Mr. Stein said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “Miss Hartman told me she’d come to visit you.”

I raised my brows as I shook his hand. “She did not mention you, I feel I should tell you.”

“I am not surprised.” Stein gave me a thin smile. “She never considered me good enough for her younger sister.” He hesitated. “When Devorah told me she’d gone to you, I’d planned to visit you myself, but my wife convinced me not to. Water under the bridge, she said. All in the past, not our business. I agreed with her, but I am glad you sought me out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

So, I reflected, Mr. Stein was another man who’d moved on after Judith’s death.
 

Had she been so forgettable? It had been many years after my wife left me before I’d even contemplated marrying again, though I admit to several love affairs. But marriage—I’d not wanted to take the step of declaring my wife gone, abandoning me, perhaps lying dead. That would have made it too final.

“You reported her missing,” I said to Stein. “To Bow Street.”

“To the Whitechapel magistrate’s house,” Stein corrected me. “It was the nearest.”

I knew the magistrate there—Sir Montague Harris. I would have to find out if he’d been there at the relevant time.

“Why did you?” I asked. “The note in the records said you waited nearly a week before you sought the magistrate.”

Stein let out a sigh. “Judith no longer wanted anything to do with me—I was not certain she’d welcome me looking for her. She’d made it clear she despised her family, her faith, her friends … me. We were backward to her—never mind we live elbow-to-elbow with Anglos and share almost all aspects of their lives. No, because we still attend the synagogue and observe
kiddush
, we are medieval and slow. She was impatient for life, was Judith.”

Around us men flowed back into London, heading home for meals and the end of their Sabbath day. Molodzinski had discreetly moved from us and was engaged in conversation with his acquaintance.

“She presumably found this new life with Mr. Bennett,” I said.

A flash of anger lit Mr. Stein’s affable face. Anything soft in him fled, and his eyes hardened.
 

“Bennett flattered her, cajoled her, turned her from her family. My father and hers had agreed upon our marriage, and Judith had been all for it. I loved her, pure and simple. I am not a traditionalist—I did not expect her to cover herself from all eyes and hide at home. When I escorted her out, with her father, we were lively and happy. But Bennett—he convinced Judith that what she had was wrong and dull. She’d only see life if she fled the confines of her father’s house and moved with him to Oxford Street.”

“That is where they lived?” I asked.

“He’d bought a house there with money his father left him, or so he claimed. Judith at first told Devorah—with whom she still corresponded—that she was happy there. But later … I don’t know what transpired. She disliked the house, she wanted to move to a better …”

Had Judith been of a character that needed constant novelty? Or had she discovered that Bennett had, in truth, little to give her? Perhaps the house had been only leased, perhaps he’d counted on Judith’s family to provide her with money. I would seek Bennett again and throttle answers from him.

“If she lived at Oxford Street,” I began. “Why had she gone to Aldgate High Street? Where both you and Devorah reported her last seen?”

Stein shook his head. “I could not say. Judith occasionally met Devorah, though not often, because Devorah liked to scold her. Devorah told me she saw Judith by chance at Aldgate High Street. Judith glanced her way then hurried off, gone. When letters to Judith went unanswered in the next few days, Devorah went to the house in Oxford Street to find Judith and Bennett both gone. Moved out a few days before, the neighbors said. After a tremendous row.”

My brows rose. “Indeed?” Bennett had omitted
this
fact. “That is when Devorah reported her missing?”

“She did. I had not known Devorah had gone to the magistrate until later. I myself approached the Oxford Street house—in case the neighbors were mistaken—but no. They were gone. I saw Bennett on that street, or supposed I did, a few days later, without Judith. I followed him. He went to another house, and I glimpsed, while the door was open, a woman who welcomed him in, but she was not Judith.”

Very interesting, indeed. “Where was this house?”

Stein blinked his large eyes at me. “This was years ago, Captain. I no longer remember the number of Bennett’s house, though I think it was near Swallow Street. This house was further along, around Soho Square.”

“Did you inquire further?” I asked.

“No—I was angry, and alarmed. But I had no wish to confront Bennett so I went to the magistrate.” He let out another defeated breath. “All for nothing. Devorah and I searched, but we never found Judith. Bennett came to me looking for her as well, convinced I and her family had taken her back. He left after calling me some appalling names, and I never saw him again. Neither Mr. Hartman nor I had the money at the time to offer sufficient reward or hire someone to help us. After a time, we assumed her dead. And now it appears we were correct.”

His sorrow was genuine, I thought, but faded now. He remembered Judith with regret, but I did not read in him a lingering rage at Bennett or grief at Judith’s death. She was gone, had been for a long time, and he had a new family, a new life.

Had
this
man struck her down? Had Stein, with his calf eyes, been unforgiving when Judith eloped? Perhaps Judith had come to meet him somewhere near Aldgate High Street—she might have been unhappy with Bennett and thought she could speak to Stein about it. Maybe she hoped Stein might forgive her and help her get free of Bennett. Or simply came at his summons. Stein might have walked her nearer the river, argued with her, struck her, pushed her in.

Devorah had caught sight of her by chance, and Stein had become worried when she reported Judith missing. He’d reported her missing as well, because that is what a man who’d cared about a woman would do, jilted by her or not.

For whatever reason those reports and Judith’s bones found five years later had not been connected. Remembering the sea of papers under the Bow Street house, I was not terribly surprised.

Stein had strong hands and a solid build. He’d have been even more strong and agile in his twenties. A quarrel gone wrong? Or had he planned to kill Judith for disgracing him?