The Thames River Murders (25 page)

“You look well, Gabriel,” Louisa said, returning my kiss. “If a trifle harassed.”

“Worried father,” I replied. “Louisa, how the devil will I rest until I know she’s happy?”

Louisa Brandon, her blond hair having darkened in the twenty-odd years I’d known her, her face only now showing lines, smiled and reached up to pat my shoulder.

“Do not worry, you shall never rest. There will always be something in Gabriella’s life to fret you. Rejoice that she is here to fret over.”

I warmed. “That is true. I ought to have known you would show me the right of it.”

“She is a lovely young woman, Gabriel. But not a silly girl. I doubt she’ll let a roué turn her head.”

I saw the roué I most objected to sidle up to Aline and Gabriella across the room—with his mother, of course.
 

I bristled. “I do
not
like that young man.”

“Emmett Garfield?” Louisa looked surprised. “Nothing wrong with Mr. Garfield. He acts a fool sometimes, but there is no badness in him.”

I realized I’d needed a male opinion of Mr. Garfield. Ladies might not look further than his well-featured face and too-charming manner.

Gabriella was smiling at him, shaking his hand. Garfield bowed to her; she curtsied. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling.

“Curb yourself, Gabriel.” Louisa sounded amused.

I realized I was growling. I halted the sound in my throat, but it continued inside my head. This would be a long evening.

***

As certain as I was that Mr. Garfield would pick up Gabriella and run off with her, no such frightening thing happened. The night, I almost hated to admit, came off without incident.

My daughter danced nearly every dance, leading out the first set, happy and eager. Her first partner, I was pleased to see, was the quiet Leland-like Mr. Marsden, not Mr. Garfield. Mr. Garfield was farther down the row in the dance, smiling and engaging his partner in conversation, as a gentleman should.

I still did not like him.

Leland Derwent himself was there, having come with his father, Sir Gideon, and cousin, Catherine Danbury. Leland did not dance, his subdued dress indicating he was still in mourning for his friend.

“It hurts,” he confided in me when we had a moment together. “But my father has been very understanding, as has Catherine. I did not know how sympathetic they would be.”

“They love you,” I said. “Simple as that.”

“Yes. I had not realized how much.”

They would help him heal. My estimation of Sir Gideon’s goodness rose higher still. “Mr. Hilliard has been a friend as well, I understand.”

Leland flushed. “Freddie has been kind to me. But he is not Gareth.”

And no one ever would be. I understood that. I had hope, though. Leland was young, with a large heart and a capacity for love.

Gabriella was never without a partner, or a group of young ladies to speak with. Donata and Aline had chosen the guests well, I had to admit. They’d invited kind people, those who would not sneer at Gabriella because her father was a penniless captain from Norfolk. They accepted her at the same time they looked upon her as a refreshing newcomer.

Donata gloated in her triumph, but I could not chide her. She had brought it off. A success.

Donata and Gabriella planned to spend the night at Aline’s, and as things wound to a close in the wee hours, I considered returning home and collapsing into bed. The gentlemen had all gone by now, so I had no more need to stay and be a snarling guard dog.

Before I could depart, however, Grenville sought me. He’d stood up for two dances with Gabriella and put about that he thoroughly approved of her. This would guarantee her success far more than all the machinations Donata and Aline had gone through for this party.

When I’d gently teased Donata about this, she’d only stared at me and said, “Of course. Why do you think I invited him?”

Grenville’s good humor had deserted him now, and his face had lost color. “Lacey, there you are. Come with me.”

Without waiting to see whether I followed, he hurried down the stairs to the front door, where Bartholomew stood.

“Sir,” Bartholomew called.
 

His voice echoed through Lady Aline’s rotunda-like entrance hall. The cupola at the top of the staircase reflected the word back.

I pulled Bartholomew outside. His face too was pale, his agitation evident. “What is it?”

“Jack—the footman, Mr. Brewster’s friend.” Bartholomew’s eyes were wide, his body trembling under my steadying hand. “He’s dead, sir. Someone’s killed him.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Grenville’s carriage clattered to a halt next to us. Matthias, as worried as his brother, opened the door.

Grenville gestured at the pair of them. “Get in and tell us all about it.”

Bartholomew waited to help me and Grenville in before he launched himself up, followed by Matthias. The carriage started off, I knew not where, but I did not care at the moment.

Bartholomew leaned toward us. “I’ve been following Mr. Bennett wherever I could, just as you told me, sir. Well, earlier this evening, I followed him to Oxford Street. You told me to watch him especially there. Usually when he goes, he’s finding a hackney to take him to the City. Today, though, he walked on toward Soho, and he stopped at a house just off the square. Number 18. I made a note of it.”

“Good lad,” I said, impatient. “Did he kill this Jack?”

“I’m getting to that, sir. When Mr. Bennett came out of the house in Oxford Street, I think he spied me. He turned his head at the wrong time, then went on as though thinking nothing of it, then he stopped and looked back. I’d hidden by that time, but he looked about very carefully. Then he returned to Cavendish Square. So—when he went out later, I asked Jack to follow. He was more or less finished with his duties for the night anyway, and crept out.

“Mr. Bennett came back around one of the clock, but Jack didn’t. I thought maybe Jack had stopped at a public house to refresh himself, and I walked in the direction Bennett had gone to see if I could find him.

“I found him all right. There was a crowd mobbing about just beyond the turning to Soho Square, and there was Jack. Lying dead on the cobbles, his head bashed in. People were shouting for the Watch, for a doctor. I pushed through, telling them I was his friend, but I could see he was for it.”

Bartholomew pushed his hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, sir. I sent him after Mr. Bennett, and I got him killed.”

No,
I
had.
 

“Damn it,” I said feelingly.

“Any indication that Bennett struck him down?” Grenville asked.

“Well, he must have done.” Bartholomew’s eyes widened. “He knew Jack was following him, he dragged him aside, and hit him over the head. Just like he did that poor Miss Hartman.”

My heart was beating thick and hard, fingers tingling as I clutched my walking stick. “This time he will be arrested and made to pay. We must fetch Pomeroy.”

Matthias nodded. Grenville broke in, his voice the only calm one inside the carriage.
 

“Lacey, we should not be precipitate. I hate to suggest it, but he might not have anything to do with this killing. Jack might have gotten into a fight in a public house where he stopped, as Bartholomew suggested, to wet his throat.”

I glared at him. “Do you believe that?”

“I do not know what to believe,” Grenville said. “But if we make accusations, and they are wrong, then Bennett might escape us for Miss Hartman’s murder. He is the type of man to flee. We must go carefully.”

I did not want to go carefully. I wanted to break Bennett’s neck.

I balled one fist, controlling my temper with effort. Grenville was correct—if we spooked Bennett, he might run to the Continent or some such, where we would be hard-pressed to find him and bring him back.

If I went to Pomeroy and asked that Bennett be watched, Pomeroy would be ham-handed about it and spook him all the same. Spendlove, getting wind, would be even more ruthless.

“Matthias,” I said. “Would you deliver a message to Mr. Denis for me? Or have Mr. Brewster do it, if you can find him first.”

“No, no,” Grenville said quickly. “I will go. I cannot ask Matthias to walk into a lion’s den. We are near Curzon Street; why not visit him now? I take it you are going to ask him to watch Mr. Bennett.”

I tapped on the roof and called for Jackson to stop. The carriage halted. “You go on to Curzon Street,” I told Grenville. “I am off to Cavendish Square. When Bennett hears about his dead footman, he might flee. I will stay there until Brewster or whomever Denis sends arrives. Please impress upon Mr. Denis the importance of the situation.”

Grenville looked doubtful. “I will try. But I cannot say he will listen to me.”

“He’ll send men to Cavendish Square if only to drag me out of Bennett’s house to beat me for my impertinence. But that doesn’t matter. I want them there. Bennett might escape the Watch, but he will not escape Denis.”

I did not give Grenville time to argue. Jackson had thoughtfully pulled over to the side of the street so I did not have to land in the middle of traffic. I slammed the door and moved off, hobbling to the nearest hackney stand.

***

Bennett had already gone to bed, to sleep the sleep of the just when I arrived. The startled footman who answered the door told me this, then went pale with shock when I explained that Jack was dead.

I told the footman I would be sitting the rest of the night in the upstairs hall to prevent more murders in this household. “No, do not rouse Mr. Bennett,” I finished. “Let him sleep. We will tell him in the morning.”

The footman scuttled away. He hurried down the back stairs, his voice ringing out the news about Jack before the door shut behind him to muffle his frantic words.

I slid out the flask I’d brought with me tonight in case I needed to settle my stomach while watching the young men flutter around Gabriella. I took a fortifying sip of brandy then ascended the stairs to the second floor and planted myself on a cushioned bench in the hall.

It was warm, the house stuffy, which would ensure I didn’t catch cold. It might send me to sleep though. I firmed my jaw, determined to be wakeful and not let Bennett slip away.

I did not have to wait long to discover what Denis would do. Within an hour, the footman who’d admitted me scurried up the stairs to say a man called Brewster was asking for me.

I went down. Brewster was in the street, the bulk of him tight with anger.

“His nibs says you should have asked him for his help in the first place,” Brewster began. Any friendliness he’d showed me a few days ago was gone. “Not had me send in someone out of his depth.”

Denis, I recalled, had warned me off the business entirely, thus forcing me to use the assistance of those I could. Perhaps Denis’s anger hid remorse.

“Brewster, I am so very sorry. I never thought it would come to this.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “You’re not to blame, Captain.
I
am. I didn’t take the danger seriously. Mr. Denis has sent six men. They’ve dispersed all around the house. This Bennett steps a foot out, they’ll be on him. He’ll not get away.”

“I’ll avenge your friend, Brewster. I promise you that.”

“Jack were a bloody thief,” Brewster said, scowling. “But a good lad for all that.”

“Perhaps one of the men can be spared to accompany me to Soho,” I said. “I want to know where Bennett went tonight.”

“I’ll spare me,” Brewster returned. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again, sir.”

***

Brewster had a quick word with one of the ruffians I’d witnessed beating Molodzinski in Denis’s staircase hall, then he trotted after me as I strode south to Oxford Street. I was too agitated and too cramped to wait for a hackney, so I simply walked.

Bartholomew had said Bennett visited number 18 in a lane off Soho Square. It stood to reason that Bennett had returned there again when Jack was following him—though I couldn’t be certain. Regardless, I wanted to know what business he had at that address.

We headed from Oxford Street down into Soho Square. In the late part of the last century, a brothel patronized by the wealthy wanting novelty had stood in this square. From tales I’d heard, it had been part brothel, part stage set. A man would arrange to meet one of the courtesans of the house, and then upon entering a bedroom would find the lights going out and a specter or skeleton coming at him instead. Such were the entertainments of the rich and world-weary.

That house was gone now, but other brothels had sprung up. Soho Square spilled out its south side not far from Seven Dials, where life was dangerous.

The only number 18 was in a small lane on this south end. The house itself was solid and plain, nothing unusual.

In spite of the late hour, a light burned in the upper windows. Was this a discreet brothel? Or the home of Bennett’s mistress? Or some other sort of house—a gaming hell, perhaps, where Bennett squandered away Captain Woolwich’s money?

The only way to discover was to enter. I knocked.

The door was wrenched open by, of all things, a small urchin. He was about nine years old and had a belligerent face and brown eyes.

While brothels often had boys who ran errands and were on hand for much more sordid requests, this boy did not have the look. He was a sturdy lad, and when I studied his face, a realization struck me and struck me hard.

“Well,” the boy asked. “Whatcha want?”

I stood, dumbfounded, unable to speak. Before the lad could slam the door in my face, a woman came down the stairs. She was pretty, about thirty, with brown hair peeping from under a cap.

“Mark,” she called. “Who is it?” She reached the bottom of the stairs, saw me, and stopped short. “If you’ve come from the beaks, you needn’t bother me,” she snapped. “He’s paid the debt.”

I finally swallowed the lump in my throat. “I am not a creditor, madam, nor from the magistrates.” I drew a breath and took a chance. “Mrs. Andrew Bennett?”

She looked me up and down. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? What’s happened?”

Behind me, Brewster made an amazed sound. “’Struth,” he said.