The Thames River Murders (3 page)

I moved past Barnstable, who gave me a silent look of thanks, and up the stairs to my lady’s chamber.

Donata Anne Catherine St. John, nee Pembroke, the daughter of an earl, widow of a viscount, and now simply Mrs. Captain Gabriel Lacey, reclined as gracefully as ever on a chaise in her boudoir.
 

Coffee reposed at her elbow as did an empty glass with a small amount of film clinging to its interior. Conclusion—she’d been ill soon after she woke.

The casual observer would never suspect it but for that glass with a draught to settle her stomach. Her color was high, her golden silk peignoir flowed over her limbs, and her dark hair was caught in a bandeau with careless elegance. The only thing missing was the cigarillo wafting its smoke about her face—she’d declared the things made her queasy when she was with child and had reluctantly given them up.

Donata held several letters in her hand and did not look up when she heard my step.
 

“There you are, Gabriel. Barnstable said you’d gone out. Where on earth did you find to run to in the small hours of the morning?”

“It was nine,” I said. “It is one o’clock now. Which is the small hours of the morning for
you
.”

I did not move from the doorway, knowing I could not be surrounded by the best of odors, in spite of my contact with Anton’s kitchen. Death has a miasma of its own.

Donata looked up. Her dark hair held a gloss that picked up the sunlight through the windows, burnishing a gold streak in it that matched her garment. Her fine-boned face held the arrogance of the aristocrat—her family’s ancestors had graced this land from Saxon times, integrating themselves with the upstart Normans and continuing from there.

Her eyes were her best feature, in my opinion, dark blue and bottomless. When I looked into those eyes, my cares and pain fell away, and I drowned in her.
 

Few cracked the hard shell she’d formed around herself through years of unhappiness, but I’d found the way to the true Donata.

“Will you prop up the doorframe or come in?” Donata asked, an edge to her voice. “I do hate to shout across the room.”

“I have been to Wapping and back in not the cleanest of hackneys,” I said. “Let me change to something more suitable, and I will attend you.”

“Nonsense, Gabriel. You are perfect as you are. Please, do come closer. If you fear to put dust on the furniture, you may stand, or I will have Barnstable fetch towels for you to sit upon. But I really must speak to you.”

Her adamance made me curious. I had expected her to flap her hand and say,
Yes, yes, if you think it best
, instead of insisting I stay.

“What is it?” I came to her, but halted about six feet away. If her stomach was a perilous place, and I smelled of horse, dank cellar, and death, it might lead to a headlong rush to her basin.

She lifted the papers she’d been reading. “I’ve been perusing these letters again. The ones accusing you of being an imposter. I think—I am not entirely certain—but I might know who wrote them.”

Chapter Three

The crease between Donata’s brows and her lack of amusement with which she had previously regarded the blackmailing missives, gave me some disquiet.
 

“Well?” I asked when she paused. “Will you tell me a name?”

“Only if you will promise me you will not rush from here and stab him through the neck with your sword. You are rather precipitous at times.”

Since I found the letters in bad taste but ridiculous, I did not think they’d drive me to murderous frenzy. I saved that for more worthy endeavors.

“I give you my word,” I said. “I will remain calm until we know for certain who is the author of these profane letters.”

Still Donata hesitated, as though debating whether to speak. “There was a man,” she began slowly. “Before I married Breckenridge, I rather foolishly encouraged a gentleman into pursuing me, believing I’d marry him if he asked me. I was young and silly enough to think I could follow my heart in matters of matrimony.”

“I am pleased you have come to your senses,” I said dryly.

She flicked me a glance. “You know what I mean. I imagine you were full of glorious fantasies of romance and love when you were seventeen.”

“Worse,” I admitted. “I was twenty, and married the lady.”

Donata knew all about that. I did not regret having a child with my first wife—I now had my beautiful daughter, Gabriella—but the marriage was a disaster on all other counts.

“Then you understand,” Donata said. “I was besotted, as only a girl can be. He was a thorough blackguard, of course. But oh, so charming. Breckenridge was horrible in his own way, but from a respectable and ancient family, which made all the difference to my father and mother. If I had married with my heart, eloped with my charming gentleman, I would be destitute, ruined, and cut off from everyone I hold dear. Alas, such thoughts do not enter one’s head at seventeen.”

“Probably not.” My daughter was eighteen, I thought with a qualm. Donata’s father had been strong enough to curb her, powerful enough to set up an aristocratic marriage for her. How much power did I, a poor country gentleman and half-pay army officer, have to prevent my daughter from a foolish mistake?

“Are you saying,” I went on, “that the writer of these threatening letters is your former inamorato?”
 

She gave me a look of scorn. “Matters hardly went
that
far. My love was innocent, though I am certain he had other ideas. But yes, I suspect him. He enjoyed flowery phrases, and these letters are rife with them. Besides, I can think of no other person who would wish to destroy my marriage to you.”

“No?” I asked. “I can think of a good many.”
 

Donata had been a wealthy widow, and her son was a viscount, possessor of vast tracts of property and piles of money. And who had sidled in to steal her from the gentlemen of the
ton
? A forty-odd year-old army captain, lame, with one suit to his name, who lived over a bakeshop in Covent Garden.
 

Three quarters of Mayfair was furious with me. They blamed Grenville for bringing a nobody into contact with their number, where I could meet a lady like Donata. They were entirely right, but that did not mean I’d give up my lady, tuck my tail between my legs, and scurry back to my damp, rundown house in Norfolk like a good country squire. Donata also had two cousins highly enraged that I’d cut them out of any chance with her.
 

“None who would send letters like this.” Donata gestured with the paper she held. “There was always a little something mad about him. Probably added to his appeal—girls can be such idiots.”

“What is this gentleman’s name?” I asked again.

“Hmm.” Donata’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain now that I will reveal it. Not because I am ashamed, but you do tend to let your temper get the better of you, and you have the unfortunate tendency to draw the ire of the Runners.”

“That is so,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. “All the same, I wish you would tell me.”

“I will think on it.” Donata folded the letter and tucked it into a pocket of her peignoir. “I might be wrong, in any case. No use in you kicking a poor unfortunate who was minding his own business. Besides, he might have reformed.”

I doubted it. Once a roué always a roué, in my experience.

“Wherever did you go this morning?” Donata asked, the business of the letters finished. “Barnstable tells me you had a message then dashed out in a hackney.”

“I did indeed. I am prepared to tell you all about it if I am allowed to make myself presentable.”

“You do fuss so, Gabriel. Very well. Please be quick. I am too impatient these days.”

I adjourned to my chamber, hurried through my ablutions, and let Bartholomew, my valet, tuck me into another suit. I owned several now, as my wife insisted that any husband of hers must look presentable.
 

I cared very little for clothing, but I had no wish to embarrass her, so I consulted Grenville, who referred me to a tailor who would dress me in clothes to suit me. As a result, I now owned several subdued, everyday ensembles, formal coats and trousers for elegant occasions, and several sets of riding clothes.

Returning to Donata’s boudoir, I felt more confident taking a seat next to her.

Donata’s room was entirely feminine, all ivory and gold, its furniture ornate and gilded, or elegantly plain. Ivory draperies trimmed with gold flowed at the windows, an ebony table at Donata’s side held her coffee; a matching table at my side held mine.

I enjoyed coffee at any time of the day, and I readily drank it. A rich heat filled my mouth and warmed my stomach. I reflected that I was becoming pampered and soft, living in this luxury.

I related my visit to Thompson and what he had showed me, sparing her no details. Donata was resilient enough, even belly-full as she was, to listen without flinching. Indeed, she’d have taken me to task if I’d spared her any description.

I also showed her the cloth, which she stroked in curiosity, pronouncing it a rather well-woven cotton. The necklace too had been expensive, but we both agreed the clothes and necklace might have been gifts, or stolen.

Donata viewed the dead woman’s trinkets without turning a hair. Only when I told her I’d taken the bones away in a hackney did Donata’s eyes widen.
 

“Good heavens, Gabriel, you did not bring them here, did you?”

“Indeed, no.” I drained my cup and clicked the delicate thing to its saucer. “I took them to Grenville’s.”

A spark lit Donata’s eyes. “Did you? How delicious. What did Grenville say when you sprang them on him?”

“He does not know yet. He was not at home.”

“His own fault then.” Donata moved closer to me. “When you show them to him and discuss it, as you will, may I come too? I am most curious.”

“A touch gruesome,” I answered. “Better not.”

Her look turned exasperated. “My dear Gabriel, I am not fragile porcelain. I have borne a child before, with great success. Peter is robustly healthy, terrifyingly so. I do not see what harm I can come to in Grenville’s cellars.”

“You are maddening,” I said. “If I forbid you?”

“I will simply go myself when you are out.”

In this day and age, a husband’s word was absolute, and his wife was obligated to do exactly as he told her. I could prosecute my wife for disobedience, and I would not be blamed if I took my fists to her for defying me.

I knew, however, that Donata, possessing a natural air of command herself, simply thought such rules did not apply to her. She had no intention of meekly obeying me, and if I raised a hand to her, she had a powerful father ready to take me to task for it.

Or else, Donata had realized long ago that I would never hurt her, no matter how much she vexed me.

“Very well,” I said, pretending to ignore her triumphant look. “I must find Denis’s surgeon, and then we will go.”

She was satisfied with that and thanked me tenderly, without words.

***

I had little idea where to begin hunting for the surgeon I had in mind, because I did not know his name, where he dwelt, and even if he remained in England.

I left Donata and looked about for Brewster. Brewster rarely entered my house, to the relief of those below stairs, who’d have to put up with him while he waited for me. Donata’s servants considered themselves above such ruffians as Brewster and did not welcome him into their midst.

I asked the footman whose principal job it was to answer the door what had become of him. The lad pointed up the street and said, “Pub, sir.”

I found Brewster in Oxford Street, in a public house he’d taken to, the Ox and Dog.

This part of Oxford Street edged between more genteel neighborhoods and the warrens of Soho and Seven Dials. Those who worked for the wealthy—coachmen, grooms, and the like—came here. Upright, hard-working people who, like Donata’s servants, knew a bone-breaker when they saw one.

Brewster, however, had a knack for keeping to himself and fading into the moldings, quite a trick for such a big man. The clientele, however, had grown used to him and now ignored him.

This public house wasn’t as old as some in London. Though it sported dark polished wood, settles around the large fireplace, and a scrubbed, flagstone floor, the house didn’t sag at the seams, the windows were large and many-paned, and the whole place had a modern, cheerful air to it.
 

Brewster sat in the corner farthest from the door, his back to the wall, where he could observe the entire room from the shadows. A tankard rested in front of him, nearly empty.

The publican gave me a nod when I came in. I’d become as recognizable as Brewster, though the regulars weren’t quite certain why a respectable-looking, military gentleman had such a pugilist-like acquaintance. I could feel the speculative gazes of the men in the tavern as I passed them—was Brewster my servant? Hired ruffian? Odd friend? Lover?

I paid no attention as I seated myself opposite Brewster and accepted the ale the publican put before me. I’d pay for mine as well as Brewster’s, as had come to be my habit.

“I don’t know where he is,” Brewster said before I could speak.

“But your employer will,” I replied. “Will you ask him to send the man to Grenville’s house? I’m certain we can all practice discretion.”

“No, I will not.” Brewster locked his hands around his tankard. “You stick your neck out too far, Captain. His nibs will snap it off, one day, and I don’t want mine coming off with yours.”

“You only need to deliver the message. Mr. Denis will know
I
am the audacious one, not you.”

Brewster’s lower lip firmed in a way I’d come to know meant he would be intractable. “No. He’s sent me to look after you. That means keeping you from endangering yourself from
him
as well. I have to say, watching you is more trouble than a whole flock of unruly sheep. You go off every which way. Leave it, Captain. That’s my final word on it.”
 

Chapter Four

“Very well,” I said. “I will hunt down the surgeon myself.”