“Your pardon, sir,” I said. “It is possible the woman who wore it stole it from your daughter. As Mr. Grenville says, we are not certain.”
Hartman stretched the chain between his hands. “It was joined around her neck when her mother gave it to her. It has only been cut once.” He pointed to a broken link. “When it came off her.”
“The young woman who was found had broken her arm at one point,” Grenville said.
Hartman nodded. “Yes.” His eyes screwed up, more tears pouring down his face.
Grenville continued in his gentlest tone. “We’ve visited Mr. Coombs, the surgeon. He said he set the arm of a young lady about that time, but he claims she is alive and well.”
“No.” Hartman pulled a handkerchief from his coat sleeve and buried his face in it. “We told him, when we went to him, that she was her sister. They look much alike. We decided to do so to let no one know her shame.”
Her shame? A broken limb was no cause for shame, not that mine didn’t embarrass me. I sensed Hartman meant something deeper.
Hartman mopped his face. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must close the shop.”
He rose, tottered to the door and locked it, then pulled the curtain across the front window. When he turned back, his breathing was better, but the utter grief in his eyes smote me.
Grenville had risen. “We will go, then. We are so sorry to have caused you distress.”
Hartman stopped, looking at us in some bewilderment. “How … how did you gentlemen come to know of this? You are not Runners—well, I know Mr. Grenville is not.”
“Mr. Thompson of the Thames River Police asked me to help him,” I said. “He had never been able to discover who she was. I have found people before, and so he confided in me.” I was puzzled. “You did not know she was dead before we told you—did you never report her disappearance to the Watch? The Runners? There would have been a hue and cry …”
“No.” Hartman shook his head emphatically. “We looked for her, of course, did our best. But we did not want the Runners. They are dear, in any case. We searched …”
He’d not wanted to give up, I saw. He’d clung to hope all this time, forcing himself to go on with his life.
“By reporting her, you might have discovered the truth long ago,” I said.
Another shake of the head. “No, Captain. We did not want the Watch or Runners blundering into our business. They could not have helped in any case. Not if she were dead already.” He hesitated. “Where is … she?”
I hid a flinch. At the moment, Judith Hartman was a jumble of bones in a crate sitting inside Grenville’s carriage.
Grenville said, “We’ll see that she is returned to you, sir.”
Hartman stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For the first time, I am glad her mother is gone. Judith’s vanishing already killed her once.” He let out a long breath. “Now, gentlemen, if I can ask you to leave. I must …”
He glanced about the shop as though not certain what he needed to do. I took up my hat and walking stick and gave him a bow.
“Of course,” I said. “I am terribly sorry to have upset you, sir. If I had known, I would have broken it more gently.”
Hartman shook his head. “No, no. I am grateful to you for this knowledge. For this.” He held up the necklace he still clutched.
“If you would like to speak to Mr. Thompson,” I said, “and tell him what you know, it might assist him to find who killed her.”
“No,” Hartman said abruptly. Deep anger flashed in his eyes. “I do not want inquiries into our private affairs. She is gone. Nothing to be done. Please go, Captain.”
I bowed again. “If you need any help, Mr. Hartman, any at all, please feel free to call on me.”
I removed a card from my pocket and laid it on the table. Donata had caused new calling cards to be made for me, ivory rectangles smooth and clean, with my name in fine black script. I took out the small, silver pencil that went with a silver-backed writing book she’d also given me—to help me make notes when I solved things, she’d said. I’d been grateful, but also reflected I had much more in my pockets now to steal.
I quickly wrote my Grimpen Lane address on the back—if this man craved privacy, I doubted he’d want to arrive at the large and well-populated South Audley Street house.
I pushed the card across to him with my gloved finger. Hartman made no move to take it. I gave the man another nod and departed quietly with Grenville.
Not until we were in his coach, and Jackson had headed us along the Strand toward St. Paul’s Churchyard and the long journey to Wapping, did Grenville let out a breath.
“So,” he said.
“So, indeed.” I studied the tall and rather drab houses we passed, the throng of humanity wafting down this busy thoroughfare. “The poor man.”
I’d watched Hartman’s reaction with sharp pain in my heart. For years, I’d not known the fate of my daughter, and I know some of what he felt.
I’d looked for Gabriella, but been unable to afford a long search. The war with France hadn’t helped—Carlotta had left with a French officer, and I’d not been able to scour that country for her. By the time the war had ended, thirteen years after Carlotta had fled with Gabriella, I had given up all hope of finding her.
My only comfort had been that she’d gone off with Carlotta. If Carlotta had intended to desert her child, she would have left Gabriella with me in the first place. This gave me some assurance that Gabriella would be looked after.
As it turned out, Carlotta’s French lover, Major Auberge, had cared for my daughter and raised her as his own. He’d taken care of her, I hated to admit, better than I had been able to.
Even so, Gabriella had been my child, the love of my existence, and not knowing where she was had torn a hole through me.
“I want to discover who killed her,” I said. “Hartman should not have had to suffer like that. She shouldn’t have been killed.”
“I know, old man. I agree with you.” Grenville rested his hands on his walking stick. “But where to start?”
“Hartman and his family. They must know why Miss Hartman was walking along the Thames docks, or where she’d gone the day or night she’d disappeared. Had she been meeting someone? Running away from someone? Why on earth would Judith want to pretend to be her sister when taken to a surgeon to have her arm set? Why did Hartman call it her shame?”
“All very good questions. All the same, I am not sure Hartman will embrace you into his family and let you interrogate them.”
“I had no intention of interrogating,” I said stiffly.
“You do become zealous, Lacey. Hartman, as you must have surmised, is a Hebrew. Such men do not welcome outsiders into the bosom of their families. While the Rothschilds, Goldsmids, and Montefiores attend my soirees and invite me to theirs, they would not wish me to delve too much into their private lives and their personal business.”
“Not many families would,” I said. “No matter what their origin.”
“Yes, but …” Grenville searched for words. “In my experience, Hebrew fathers are particularly guarded about their daughters. More so even than Englishmen. If you wish to discover the truth, you might have to do it without the assistance of Mr. Hartman. Might have to fight him for it, even.”
“Surely he would want to know. And bring the man—or woman—to justice. I certainly would, were it my daughter.”
Grenville gave me a deprecating look. “If it were your daughter, my dear Lacey, you would hunt the man down and wring his neck yourself. You know this.”
True, I’d be too impatient to let the wheels of justice turn in their course. When Gabriella had been endangered a year ago, I’d gone after the man who’d hurt her—Auberge and I had given him a good beating. Hartman, I thought, might feel the same.
“I will find the culprit, beat him black and blue, and drag him to the Runners,” I said. “I will leave it up to Hartman whether he wishes to prosecute.”