Brewster peered from the letter to my leg and back again. “Why does he—or she—want you not to be you?”
“Who can say? To discredit Donata? To have me arrested for fraud? Me defrauding the new Viscount Breckenridge would be a great scandal. I was present at the former Viscount Breckenridge’s death after all, which has been pointed out in the letters.” I let out a sigh. “I believe, though, that this blackguard simply wants money.”
Brewster dropped the letter back to the writing table. “I suppose you could have murdered Breckenridge, then taken up with his wife—not much grieving on her part from what I heard. You started squiring her about not long after, you know. You have been uncommon clever, Captain.”
I looked up to rebuke his teasing, and realized we were not alone.
I had not heard anyone enter over Brewster’s rumbling voice, but I now saw a woman standing in the doorway to the stairwell, her quiet presence unassuming.
I rose quickly to my feet, stepped too hard on my bad leg, and bit back a grunt as I reached for my walking stick. Brewster swung around, and in one step, had himself between me and the woman.
She looked nothing like an adept rider who could hang underneath a horse. The lady was past her first youth but still relatively young, in her thirties, I’d judge. She was plump, gently so. The sleeves of her morning gown clung to her round arms then tapered to strong wrists and fleshy hands in gloves.
The hair under her small-brimmed bonnet was dark brown, the green ribbon of the hat matching the dark green of her simple but becoming gown. Having grown used to Donata and her exacting taste, I recognized that this woman had learned how to dress the very best for her means.
She had dark eyes, a pale face, a wide mouth, and a severe look. She was quite attractive, or would be but for the bleak anger and sorrow in her eyes.
“Captain Lacey?”
I bowed. “I am he. You are the lady who wishes to speak to me?”
The clock on my mantel began striking eleven, the bells of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, taking up its tune. She was exactly on time.
“Might I ask your name?” I went on.
The lady looked me over, as though trying to make up her mind about me, then Brewster. Her glance dismissed him as the hired help.
Not a lady of timid deference, I was understanding. She’d learned to face down the world without trembling.
“I am Miss Hartman,” she said. “I understand you revealed to my father that my sister, Judith, is dead.”
I straightened in astonishment. “Yes,” I said, finding the word hardly adequate.
“I also know my father bade you not to pursue the matter further.” Miss Hartman’s voice was hard. “I am here, contrary to my father’s wishes, to ask you to do just that.” She lifted her chin. “I know who killed my sister, and I want you to prove it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Brewster and I both remained fixed in stunned silence. Miss Hartman’s green bodice rose with her breath, but her face was as chill as marble.
“Miss Hartman,” I finally managed. “Please, sit. Tell me all.”
She studied me a few moments longer, then she moved to a straight-backed chair at my table and lowered herself into it. She was so stiff that her own back barely touched that of the chair.
I signaled for Brewster to leave us. He did not look happy, but he walked out to the landing and closed the door behind him. He’d listen through it; I knew that.
I always found it interesting to observe which of my chairs my visitors selected. Those who had no shame in seeking out comfort chose the upholstered wing chair at the fireplace. Those who were more about business sat in one of the hard, wooden chairs from the seventeenth century. Those who were particularly nervous would remain standing altogether.
Miss Hartman gave me a chilly look as I sat down in the other hard, spindled chair and faced her.
“If you know who killed her,” I began, “why not go to the magistrates?”
“One must have evidence,” Miss Hartman answered crisply. “Or money to bring suit. I have neither. I only know. But I have heard through others that sometimes you, Captain, find ways to uncover proofs that the Runners can not.”
“Others have flattered me,” I said. “In this case, however, your determination and mine match. Who is this person you suspect?”
“Her husband.” The words came readily. “I see from your surprise that my father did not tell you she was married. But she was. Legitimately. In the eyes of the laws of England, I mean—not in the eyes of my father. Judith married a Gentile. She converted to become a member of the Church of England, and married him with banns read and the entire rigmarole. My father turned his back on her.”
My heartbeat quickened. “And the name of this husband?”
“Mr. Andrew Bennett. Oh, so very respectable. He married again, not two years after Judith disappeared. And then a third time. His second wife died as well.”
“I see.” I tried to stem my rising excitement. A man with too many wives in quick succession could be suspicious, or he could simply be unfortunate. Life was dangerous, illness happened all too often, as did accidents. A thrice-widowed man—or woman—was not uncommon. However, my interest perked at this gentleman who seemed to find wives so readily.
“You are skeptical,” Miss Hartman said. “But I know him. I could not say that his second wife died in unusual circumstances—she was very ill in the end—but I have my doubts. He certainly was quick to consider Judith dead and himself free to marry again.”
“A judge would have to agree that a missing woman was deceased,” I observed. “Time passing is only part of it.”
“I know.” Miss Hartman’s eyes snapped. “When Judith could not be found, Mr. Bennett concluded very quickly that she’d died—insisted within months that we give up hope. He lived with the woman who would be his second wife for two years before Judith was declared officially deceased and he could marry again.”
“Your sister’s marriage—this was the shame your father referred to?”
“The marriage, certainly. And the fact that Judith turned her back on her family. She had no use for us. She tried to convince my father to convert, to become more English, to shave his beard and be more ambitious. The ghettos of the Continent were of the past; the traditional ways were of the past. One must live in the present.”
Her anger was evident. “You do not share this view?” I asked gently.
“There is a saying—that one must not das Kind mit dem Bad ausschütten—throw the baby out with the bath. One can live well in London without ignoring one’s past.”
I preferred to ignore mine, but I knew what she meant. “Judith could not find the balance between two worlds?” When Miss Hartman’s eyes flickered, I stopped. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to use her given name.” It was not done unless a gentleman was a close friend of the family, and even then, only in proper circumstances.
“You mistake me, sir,” Miss Hartman said. “It is good to hear her name again. My father will not speak it. My mother would not before her death.”
“And your name?” I asked. “If I may be so bold as to inquire.”
For answer, she opened a small reticule that matched her gown and handed me a card. Miss Devorah Hartman.
Miss, I noted. Never married. I laid the card carefully on my writing table.
“Where might I find this Andrew Bennett?” I asked. “What is his profession?”
“He claimed to be a lecturer in Greek.” Miss Hartman’s voice was thick with cynicism. “He also said he knew Hebrew, which is how he came to be acquainted with my father. A scholar, he styled himself, though I’ve never seen him look at a book.” Her lip curled. “Mr. Bennett now lives in some leisure in Cavendish Square, in the house of his third wife. He acquired much money from his second wife, who’d inherited several thousand pounds before she died. His third wife must also have inherited something from a generous parent. I imagine you will find Mr. Bennett at home.”