I jerked awake early, my head aching, my limbs stiff.
I rose, trying to swallow enough coffee to banish the visions, and put forth plans to find out about Mr. Hartman. I went through the cards I collected and pulled out the one handed to me by Mr. Molodzinski, when he’d come to thank me for defending him against Mr. Denis.
I dressed, hired a hackney, collected Brewster, who’d returned to the house, looking half asleep, and journeyed to the City.
We traveled eastward via the wide stretch of Holborn, where molly houses nestled into the back lanes and barristers’ inns and solicitors’ offices faced the street.
The road sloped down to become Newgate Street, the grim prison walls enclosing those awaiting trial and execution, the dome of Saint Paul’s rising beyond it. After that, Cheapside led us to a six-way junction and Mansion House, where the Lord Mayor of London presided. Beyond that, Threadneedle Street held the Bank of England; Cornhill, the Royal Exchange; and Lombard Street, moneylenders and the Post Office.
Molodzinski’s house was in between these streets of great wealth. As a man of business, advising his clients on their personal financial affairs, I imagined him opening his window to hear how best to invest the fortunes of those he represented.
Molodzinski’s abode was a modest one, in a modest court between Cornhill and Lombard Street. His card was of cheap paper, and so I concluded that his clients were middle class, and not those middle class who’d amassed great fortunes. Ordinary folk, I surmised as his young clerk admitted me to ordinary rooms in an ordinary house.
“Captain Lacey.” Molodzinski came from his office at the top of the stairs as I made my stiff way up them. He gazed down at me, the relief on his still-bruised face puzzling. “How delightful. Please, do come in.”
He sounded extremely nervous. He waited for me to reach the landing, then he took my elbow with the pretense of assisting me, and nearly dragged me into his office.
I understood Molodzinski’s anxiousness as soon as I walked inside. James Denis turned from the window, where he’d been gazing down at the street.
He looked me over in his cold way and gave me a slight nod. “Captain.”
Chapter Fourteen
I nodded in return. “Mr. Denis.”
Molodzinski hovered just inside the door, clasping his hands. Any moment, he’d bolt. “You have come to discuss business, Captain? Perhaps, you would like to speak privately?”
His eyes begged me to agree. “Of course,” I said. I bowed to Denis. “Will you excuse us?”
Denis didn’t move. “Whatever business you have, you may discuss before me. I am discreet.”
Molodzinski began, “Perhaps the captain would be more comfortable …”
“He means it’s none of your affair,” I said bluntly to Denis. “Which it is not.”
Denis gave me a weary look. “Captain, I will not allow you to spirit Mr. Molodzinski away in hopes he can elude me. He cannot. State your business—it is bound to be of interest to me as well.”
I did not want Denis in this. I hoped to give Hartman peace now that he knew his daughter was dead. Denis was excellent at bringing wrongdoers to justice—when he wished—but Hartman hardly needed Denis in his affairs.
“Perhaps I will call on you another time,” I said to Molodzinski. “Or, you are welcome in South Audley Street.”
“No.” Molodzinski gazed at me in desperation. “Please, do not go.”
“He fears I will strike him dead the moment your back is turned,” Denis said. “And I might. You should stay, Captain, and prevent the tragedy.”
Denis’s sense of humor was even more obscure than my wife’s.
“Very well,” I said, losing my patience. I thumped myself onto a hard wooden chair, one of the few in the rather barren, high-ceiling room. The windows were open, early summer warmth and the stench of the city floating in. “Mr. Molodzinski, I would like to know all you can tell me about a shopkeeper called Joseph Hartman and his family. His daughter has been killed, and I am seeking information about her and her last days.”
Molodzinski blinked. “His daughter was killed? Dear, dear. Poor man.”
“Do you know him?”
Molodzinski, despite his nervousness, looked amused. “Because he is a Jew, as am I? I do not believe I’ve even heard of him.”
I suppressed an impatient noise. “No, I mean because you are a man of business to shopkeepers like him, and you might know who handles his affairs. I cannot ask Hartman himself, because he has warned me off.”
“Ah.” Molodzinski looked a bit more interested. “Perhaps I could make inquiries.”
Denis broke in. “This is the same dead woman you came to me about? Or have you found another unfortunate in the meantime?”
“The same,” I said tightly. “I have managed to discover her identity without you, thank you.”
Denis’s eyes went colder still. “I know what Mr. Brewster did. I am not happy with him, as I have explained to him.”
I thought of Brewster’s exhausted look this morning and wondered now whether he’d been able to go home at all. Had he spent the hours between seeing Donata safely to our house and my leaving the next morning being berated by Denis? Denis did not seem particularly fatigued, but then, he never did.
“Mr. Brewster, in his own way, has honor,” I said. “Allow him to rest from time to time, and see his wife.”
“Mr. Brewster’s loyalties have become a bit fluid,” Denis said. “Please remember that I pay his wages.”
“Yes, you are the master of us all,” I said, my hot temper bubbling high. Molodzinski gave me a fearful look, but I could not cease. I pointed at him. “Whatever this man has done cannot be worth you coming here yourself to reprimand him. I do my best to vex you all the time, but he is rather harmless.”
“He is a murderer, Lacey,” Denis said.
I stopped. I’d been drawing a breath to contradict him, and I nearly choked on it.
I swung back to Molodzinski. His face was red, his dark eyes full of shame. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Not on purpose.”
My words halted again. Manslaughter then? And why, if he’d killed a person, intentionally or no, was he free to go about his business?
“If you were acquitted,” I said slowly, “then Mr. Denis should have no hold on you.”
“He has never been arrested,” Denis said. “The only one who knows he killed this man is myself. And now, you.”
Molodzinski took a step toward Denis. “You promised your silence, that you would not betray me to the magistrates. Gave your word.”
Denis transferred his frosty look to Molodzinski. “In return for your services when I wished them, yes. Which you have been reluctant to furnish. But Captain Lacey is not a magistrate. If he decides to keep your secret, it will be safer with him than anyone in London.”
I tried to ignore Denis while I faced Molodzinski. “Will you tell me what happened?” This man did not look like a killer, not even an accidental one.
Molodzinski let out a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots. “I was approached by some … men. Four of them. One was a client. They wanted me to embezzle from two other of my clients, to ruin the gentlemen, and of course pass on their money to them. When I continually refused, they sent a ruffian to persuade me. I fought with him, and he fell down the stairs. Broke his neck.”
Molodzinski snapped his mouth shut, as though reminding himself to say nothing further. A plausible tale, but I wondered whether there was more to it.
“These men who’d asked you to embezzle must have noticed that the ruffian they sent to you had died,” I said.
Molodzinski shuddered. “I’d had some dealings with Mr. Denis in the past—the money I told you I borrowed from him. I asked for his help.”
Denis finished. “I made certain that the ruffian’s death was not connected to Mr. Molodzinski, and that the consortium took their business elsewhere.”