“A venerable thing,” Hartman said, his gaze going to it. “May I?”
I unhooked the watch from the chain Donata had given me for it and handed it over. Hartman slid an eyepiece from his pocket with the ease of long practice, opened the back, and peered through the lens to the watch’s viscera.
“Finely made,” he said, sounding impressed. “A Leroux perhaps?” He glanced at me hopefully.
I shook my head. “No idea. It was my father’s.”
“Well, it is exquisitely done. No hallmark—they didn’t often do them in silver fifty years ago, only in gold. Still, it is a fine piece. Perhaps Mr. Schweigler can make one still finer.”
“The finest,” Grenville said. “The captain has been through much, wounded in the war, you know, and being forced to retire.”
Now he was enjoying my discomfiture. I said, “Indeed. Mr. Grenville has been kind to befriend me.”
Mr. Hartman regarded me with more interest. “Waterloo, was it?”
“Afraid not. I was wounded in the Peninsula, too hurt to go back into the field for the last show. Apparently, the Iron Duke somehow managed without me.”
Hartman chuckled politely at my joke. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. My assistant will bring coffee, and we will discuss things.”
He hurried out of the main shop through a door, leaving us alone.
“Well,” Grenville said.
I couldn’t help a short laugh. “I suppose you are purchasing me a watch.”
“You must admit you need one. Your timepiece is not bad but it ought to be kept under glass, to be admired as a relic of a time long past. I should have given you one years ago.”
“Forced it upon me, you mean.”
“Do not get your back up,” Grenville said. He seated himself in an armless chair with sinuous legs that had also come from the last century. “Or your pride. This is all in the line of duty. We must put him at his ease.”
“Of course.” If nothing else, we’d have made a gentleman happy with an easy sale.
The front room of the shop was small and dim, the only light coming through the window that gave on to the street. The chamber was more like a sitting room, with the old-fashioned chairs and a round, gate-legged table, and a small case with a glass top resting on the table. The case was empty at the moment, but perhaps Hartman displayed watches in it—an easy thing to carry away to the back rooms and lock up when the shop closed.
Hartman returned with his assistant, who carried coffee. Hartman was a rather large man, somewhat stout, but more solid than fat. In his younger days, he might have gone in for pugilism. He was in middle-age now, approaching his elder years, his thin hair iron gray. He wore a beard on his round face, neatly trimmed nearly to his chin.
The assistant was clearly related to him—son, nephew, or grandson—with the same round face, brown eyes, and solid body that would someday become soft. The assistant was clean-shaven, showing a cleft in his chin that perhaps his father—or uncle, or grandfather—also sported under his beard.
The assistant poured coffee into rather elegant porcelain cups, left the silver pot on a tray, and silently retreated into the depths of the house.
“He is learning the business,” Hartman said with an apologetic glance at the door the assistant closed. “He is not entirely happy about it, but he is young. My brother’s boy. He wants to be a soldier, but the war is over, thank God. He wants to explore the world now, but my brother fears to let him out of his sight. I am trying to think of ways he can make journeys for me. I hate to break his spirit.”
“I understand,” I said. I sipped the coffee, which was remarkably good. Far better than the tea Coombs had offered us. “I have a daughter who is quite … spirited. She is about to make her come-out.”
Hartman laughed, his salesman’s demeanor relaxing slightly. “I have much sympathy for you, Captain. Daughters can be very worrying.” His laughter faded a bit. “Very worrying, indeed.”
Something flashed in his eyes, a darkness, a grief—only a flash, but I’d seen it.
I could not very well ask him if long ago, one of his daughters had broken her arm, and was she still alive without it being awkward. I saw Grenville’s gaze flick to me and away. He was also trying to think of a means to introduce the topic.
I had an idea, though. Not very kind of me, but thinking of the young woman, dead and forgotten, made me impatient and angry. If this watch seller had absolutely nothing to do with the woman, then he would only be puzzled and curious, and we’d go away, having brought him some business.
Gautier had returned the necklace to Grenville, along with his list, in careful handwriting, of the shops that might sell similar pieces or repair old necklaces like this one. Grenville had handed the necklace to me, so I could take it back to Thompson to return to the boxes of evidence in the cold cellar.
I removed the necklace, which I’d wrapped in a handkerchief, from inside my pocket, laid it on the table, and opened the folds of linen.
“I know you sell watches, but perhaps you can help,” I said to Hartman. “Have you ever seen a piece such as this? Or know what jeweler would be able to tell me about it?”
I had been studying the necklace, its simple gold chain and smooth locket as I spoke. I looked up into heavy silence as I finished.
Hartman was staring at the locket, his gaze fixed, his face so white I thought he would fall into a dead faint. His dark eyes blazed like obsidian among the stark white, his lips bloodless.
“Where …” Hartman reached a hand forward, his fingers stiff, movements slow. He stopped shy of touching the locket, as though he feared it would sting him. “Where did you come by this?”
The words barely came out of him. I lifted the necklace and laid it across his fingers.
“It was around the neck of a young woman found in the river,” I said. “She died, nearly fifteen years ago.”
Hartman stared at the necklace on his hand, his chest lifting in a tight breath. Grenville was on the edge of his chair, poised to catch Hartman, who surely would fall.
Just as I reached for him, Hartman collapsed back into his seat. He brought his hands, clutching the necklace, to his face, and began to weep in long, gut-wrenching, wordless sobs.
Chapter Eleven
Grenville and I exchanged surprised looks. I felt a touch a remorse—Hartman was weeping with abandon, his self-assurance gone.
“Mr. Hartman,” I said gently.
“Perhaps some brandy for him, Lacey.” Grenville removed a flask from his pocket and handed it to me. His was silver, beautifully engraved, a contrast to Coombs’s rather battered, plain one.
I did not think Hartman would be able to hold the flask himself, so I tipped a good measure of brandy into his coffee and lifted the cup to him. “Drink.”
He would not take his hands from his face. Hartman’s entire body shook, sobs catching in his throat, choking him. He began to cough, couldn’t catch his breath.
I thumped his back. Grenville rose in alarm. I hit Hartman’s spine with the heel of my hand, and finally, he gave a gasp and began to breathe again.
“Drink,” I repeated firmly.
This time, Hartman took the cup in his shaking hands and poured the lukewarm liquid into his mouth.
More coughing, but his color grew better, and finally he drew a long, ragged breath.
“She is dead, then?” he whispered.
Grenville returned to the table. He pulled a chair close to Hartman’s and sat, taking Hartman’s gnarled hand.
“We are not sure who she is,” he said gently.
Hartman’s look was one of terrible despair. “My … daughter. Judith. She’s been missing for fifteen years.”
Grenville and I exchanged a glance. Hartman took another gulp of coffee, this time without choking. He held the necklace tightly, not wishing to relinquish it.