The Thames River Murders (7 page)

Grenville took the necklace with interest. “A fine piece. Thompson is certain it belongs with the young woman?”

“It was around her neck,” I replied. “Fused as one piece, he said. He had to cut it from her. Could Gautier help us with that, do you think?”
 

“I will ask him,” Grenville said. He looked ready to dash away and find the man on the instant, but he steadied himself. “Anything else you can tell us about this poor girl?” he asked the surgeon. “Not that you haven’t related a veritable stream of information already.”

“She had a broken arm at one point.” The surgeon pointed to a bone in her forearm that looked perfectly fine to me. “Possibly shortly before her death, though not immediately before. It was set well, mended cleanly.”

Grenville let out a breath. “I suppose we could question every surgeon in the country to determine which one set the arm of a girl, say fifteen years ago? A bit daunting.”

“No need,” the surgeon said. “Only one in London helps breaks heal this cleanly. He must be an old man now, but if he is still alive, he might remember. Jonas Coombs. Tottenham Court Road.”

I pursed my lips, impressed. “If Thompson had been able to consult you years ago, he might have found the woman’s identity and solved her murder immediately.”

For the first time since I’d met him, I saw something like humor flicker over the surgeon’s face. “I was detained.”

“Never mind—it’s a help now,” Grenville said. “I will inquire as to the whereabouts of Jonas Coombs of Tottenham Court Road. And put Gautier on the trail of this necklace. Mr. Thompson will have his mystery solved in no time.”

I was not so optimistic, but then again, I’d had no hope we would come by so much knowledge so quickly.

“Thank you,” I said to the surgeon. “I’ll see you are compensated for your time.”

“No need.” The surgeon’s amusement had swiftly faded. “My price is silence, Captain. See that you keep it.”

Chapter Seven

We saw the surgeon upstairs, the house remaining empty and quiet from kitchen to front door.
 

The same coach and coachman waited. The surgeon nodded a good-bye to me and Grenville and got himself into the carriage, which rattled off into the darkness and fog.

“Well,” Grenville said as Matthias shut the door. “That was worth missing Lady Longwood’s soiree for. He’s an interesting man.”

“A dangerous one, I’d wager,” I said. “Even Denis seems a bit cautious about him. Now, shall you rush late to your soiree or ask Gautier about the necklace?”

“Your sense of humor is remarkable, Lacey. Come along.”

We ascended to the upper part of the house, Matthias disappearing down the back stairs, presumably to tell the servants they could emerge from hiding.

Gautier was in Grenville’s dressing room, attending to a coat. The coat hung on a rack that put it at Gautier’s height as he went over it with a pale-bristled brush.

“Sir,” Gautier said as Grenville led me in. His look of disapproval at the frock coat Grenville now slid from his shoulders would have been comical at another time.

Grenville handed the valet the necklace without preliminary. “Could you find out who made that?”

Gautier, his interest caught, held up the chain to the light of the elegant triple-candle sconce behind him.
 

It was a simple gold necklace with an oval locket, the sort ladies wore as remembrances. Inside would be a miniature or lock of hair of a loved one—mother, sister, father, husband—but as I had observed, this locket was empty.

“An old piece,” Gautier announced. “An heirloom, I presume. Not English, not originally. Though it
might
have been made in England, but from someone trained on the Continent.”

“Where on the Continent?” I asked. “France?”

Gautier shook his head. “I’d say something German. Bavaria, perhaps, or Bohemia or farther east than that. Jewelers there copy French styles but in a different way. They like heavier pieces but at the same time not so ostentatious. This is well made, expensive.”

“We’re looking for its owner,” Grenville said. “Would a jeweler in London know the piece? Even if it came from the Continent, perhaps the young lady or her family had it repaired at some point.”

Gautier tried but failed to mask his enthusiasm. “I will inquire, sir.”

“Good man. Lacey, I must attend this blasted soiree, but you will tell me everything tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Indeed. As soon as my wife releases me from the dungeon for disappearing from the opera and not returning.”

Grenville did not laugh. “Lacey, one thing you will learn about Donata is her equanimity. Every wife in the
ton
expects her husband will make himself scarce from her most of the time. I imagine she will take no notice of your absence.”

I was not so sanguine, but I thanked him for use of his cellars and promised I’d return the bones to Thompson.

“Not at all,” Grenville said. “Once I got over my shock, I knew of course that you were on a new adventure. But perhaps a note would be best next time, my dear fellow.”

***

I could not make my apologies to Donata for leaving her behind when I reached home, because she had not yet returned. I speculated that she would be more disappointed in me because she hadn’t been there for the surgeon’s assessment than because I had deserted her at the opera house. Donata had many friends and a lively nature, and she’d scarcely miss me.

Brewster, on the other hand, was there to greet me when I descended from the carriage.

“Captain,” he said. “You learn what you wanted?”

Bartholomew had the front door open, a fissure to warmth and light. I lingered in the dark fog. “I learned a great deal. I take it that you had something to do with the expedition?”

“Mayhap.” Brewster’s expression did not change. “We keep this ’atween you and me, Captain. His nibs don’t need to know.”

“Of course,” I said at once, but I was surprised. Denis’s minions rarely disobeyed him, and Brewster had been adamant about me not speaking to the surgeon. “Thank you,” I added. Brewster had done this favor for me at considerable risk to himself.

“Aye, well. Knew you wouldn’t let it rest, and would find trouble if you continued.” Brewster touched his hat. “Night, sir.”

“Good night. Give my best to your wife.”

“Yes, sir.” He remained stone-faced, and I could not tell if he were angry or pleased with my sentiment.

Brewster touched his hat again and faded into the shadows, and I entered the well-lit house.

As had become my habit, I ascended to the chambers of first Peter, then my daughter, making certain they slept and were well.
 

Peter was growing—he’d put on a few inches since I’d met him—and would soon move out of the nursery and into his own chamber. Not long after that, he’d begin school. It was to be Harrow for him, as it had been for me.

I straightened the covers over the sleeping boy, my stepson, and left the nursery.

Gabriella’s room lay on the same floor as the nursery, her windows overlooking the back garden. Her bedroom was a pleasing chamber—it held a bed with four delicate, tall posts draped with embroidered hangings, walls in a pale cream with plaster medallions in an elegant frieze, sconces dripping with faceted crystals, a chest of drawers and bedside tables with walnut burl veneer.

Gabriella slept with one arm flung across her pillow, her cheeks flushed. She breathed easily and deeply, the sleep of one with no troubles.

Donata and Aline were keen to marry her off, to make a brilliant match that would be a triumph for them. But for now Gabriella was my girl, lovely, good-natured, with a lively mind. I would hold on to her as long as I could.
 

I smoothed her covers as I had for Peter, carefully so as not to awaken her, and returned to my own chamber.

Bartholomew readied me for bed and asked me what the surgeon had told us. Apparently, his brother had already sent word about where I had been.

I related the tale, and Bartholomew listened with his usual interest. “We’re off again, are we?” he asked. “You will let me help, sir?”
 

The question was delivered in a tone of admonishment. He was not pleased he’d been left out of tonight’s consultation.

“Of course,” I assured him. “Finding this woman’s identity will be quite a puzzle. I have to wonder whether her absence was reported to the Runners, but Pomeroy may have some information in that regard. And we will again have to comb through the shops of London to find all we can about a necklace.”

“I’m your man,” Bartholomew promised. He paused in the act of carrying my clothes to the dressing room. “You will take me with you before you go off investigating, won’t you? Only, you do tend to rush headlong, sir, begging your pardon. And her ladyship, she’ll blame me if anything happens to you.”

I tied my warm dressing gown around me and gave him a severe look. “I would not dream of rushing headlong without you, Bartholomew. Now, good night.”

“Sir.” Bartholomew, looking pleased, retreated to the dressing room.

I settled myself by the fire to wait for Donata. I heard Bartholomew bustling about the dressing room as he put my clothes to rights, then silence as he at last slunk off to bed.

I indulged myself in a brandy and book. Donata had a small library, Grenville an extensive one, and the two between them kept me in reading material.
 

I liked books about history and the world best, and I was reading an account of Lord Elgin’s travels to ancient monuments. I was more fascinated at the moment by Egypt than Athens, but I admitted the wonders of Greece were astonishing.

Donata was often late returning home, so I did not worry when she remained absent at two, then three. At four, I began to wonder; at five, when the sun began to rise, I left my chair and paced. At six, the June morning already bright, I was in my dressing room, heaving on my clothes.

I banged down the stairs to the unguarded front door. A footman was usually on duty to admit visitors during the day, but he’d either still be rising from his bed or downstairs helping prepare the house for the morning.

Barnstable, hearing me, emerged from the sunny dining room where he and a footman were laying out the breakfast things. “Sir?”

“Did Lady Breckenridge come in last night?” I demanded. “Is she tucked away somewhere, asleep?”

Barnstable, who had a fork in his hand, blinked but did not look unduly worried. “She sometimes stays with Lady Aline, sir,” he said. “If she is out very late and does not wish to ride home alone.”

“I see.” My fears subsided the slightest bit but not very much.

“Shall I send someone to inquire, sir?”

“No, I’m dressed and will go myself. If she is well, I’ll escort her home.”

Barnstable’s rising brows signaled to me that he did not approve, but my agitated state put me beyond caring how crass Donata’s butler thought me.
 

I knew it was not the thing for a husband to go tearing across Mayfair looking for his wife, but trepidation gripped me, and I would not be easy until I found her. Donata would gaze at me crossly and tell me I deserved my worry for vanishing last night, but I would bear her annoyance as long as she was well.

I conceded to let Barnstable call for the coach. Donata’s lady’s maid, a Frenchwoman called Jacinthe, also had not returned, which made me hope Barnstable was right—Jacinthe would have stayed at Lady Aline’s to take care of Donata’s needs.

Our coachman, Hagen, could provide no information, as we had journeyed to Covent Garden last night in Lady Aline’s conveyance. But he had not been sent for, nor received any word from her ladyship.

Hagen quickly and without fuss drove me to Berkeley Square. Lady Aline Carrington, sister to the Marquis of Weymouth, spent the Season in London in a lavish, rather modern house in Mayfair, while her brother maintained the older family residence in Portman Square.

Aline defied convention by living alone—without companion, brother, mother, sister—but her reputation and opinions were so well-known that exceptions were made for her. Lady Aline had been a member of the bluestocking set of her day, and still was, writing pamphlets on the place of women in society, and setting the bastion of old-fashioned males of London on edge. She drew to her the most brilliant of people—artists, writers, lecturers, mathematicians, scientists, actors and actresses, musicians and singers.
 

Donata had been drawn early into her circle. These days, Donata and Aline more or less set the taste for London in music, poetry, and opera, while Grenville set it for art, gentlemen’s clothing, food, and wine.

I’d met Lady Aline very soon after arriving in London, and had found a friend in her. At this hour of the morning, however, my friendship won me nothing.
 

A footman gazed at me stonily, unhappy I’d brought him upstairs from where the household was preparing for the day. He declared that Lady Aline by no means would descend to see me.

“If my wife is in the house, I will leave without fuss,” I said. “If not …” I made as though to move past him.

The footman, a tall, rather muscular young man, stepped in front of me. “Viscountess Breckenridge is not here, sir.”

“Then I must insist on speaking to Lady Aline. I’ll shout through the keyhole if need be.”

“Her ladyship is not to be disturbed,” the footman replied firmly.

Other servants were appearing, Aline’s aged butler and several maids, all looking annoyed. An upstart captain of uneven temper demanding entry at six in the morning was not to be borne.

“I’ll speak to your coachman then,” I said. “I suppose I will not have to shout through a keyhole to
him
.”

The footman scowled at me. “The coachman is not here either, sir.”

“Then where the devil is he?”

The footman had been well trained, and was good, I knew, at being silent, decorative, and efficient, but he had reached the end of his tether. He was ready to throw me to the pavement.

The butler, no less put out with me, came forward. “If you will allow me to explain, sir. Her ladyship and the viscountess arrived here late last evening. Her ladyship descended, but the coachman drove the viscountess on. The coachman has not returned, but we know he has met with no accident. He sent word that he was spending the evening at a public house on the Brompton Road.”