The man sounded a bounder, if nothing else.
Then again, I, a penniless gentleman, had just married a widow of considerable fortune. I knew my reasons had nothing to do with her money, but those outside my circle of acquaintance—and a few within it—no doubt suspected me of financial ambition. Indeed, I was now receiving nasty letters about it.
“I will speak to him,” I said. “Be assured I do want to find your sister’s killer.”
“Well, you need look no further than Mr. Bennett.”
That remained to be seen. “What else can you tell me about your sister?” I asked.
Devorah’s eyes widened slightly. “Is there any reason to know? I care only for catching the man who ended her life.”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my impatience show, “but I might be able to snare him more readily if I know something about Judith. Mr. Bennett could have made certain to give himself an unbreakable alibi, or to destroy all evidence. I can’t bring him to trial without proof of a crime. Knowing more about your sister will help me question him.”
Devorah let out a sigh, though her sour look did not leave her. “Very well. Judith was a bit frivolous, as you no doubt guessed. She saw that becoming more Anglo would give her a wider circle of friends, more acceptance, more opportunity to enter the society she craved.
“She was not wrong. Though she had to endure cuts about being a Jewess, she happily put up with it to wear lovely ensembles, ride in Hyde Park, and be invited to soirees. We hadn’t the money to be accepted in aristocratic circles, but she reached as high as she could. Mr. Bennett being a gentleman and a scholar from a prestigious college helped.”
Devorah shook her head. “Besides this obstinacy, Judith was sweet-natured. She’d never hurt anyone on purpose. She cried when my father did not understand her wish to marry Bennett, but she was in love. She believed he’d come around when she had her first son.”
I remembered what the surgeon had said about Judith, that she’d borne no children. But she might have started one, the tiny thing washed away when she’d become bones.
“Was she increasing?” I asked, making my voice gentle.
“No.” Devorah was resolute. “Never. She and Bennett were married two years, but Judith never conceived. He blamed her, but … Bennett has never sired a child, to my knowledge, even after three marriages. I’m sure his seed is the culprit.”
Her cheeks burned red as she pronounced this, but she folded her lips, as though daring me to remark upon her impropriety.
A picture of Judith Hartman began to weave in my mind. Sweet-natured, wanting to move beyond what she saw as the confines of her life, and too trusting.
My own daughter was as sunny and trusting as I imagined Judith to be. I felt disquiet.
I comforted myself by reflecting that Gabriella was different in one respect—she’d told me she preferred her quiet country life to that of high society.
But then, I, her father, had been born to the correct religion in a country in which it was a great asset to belong to the national church. Judith had converted to the C of E in order for her marriage to be accepted in her husband’s world.
I knew full well that plenty of people declared they were “married” without the bother of the formalities. They lived in a semblance of wedlock without it being legally acknowledged, though no one said much.
Judith had not been willing to do this. She’d wanted to become Anglo and Mrs. Andrew Bennett, leaving her Jewish life behind.
“Thank you, Miss Hartman,” I said. “I will visit Mr. Bennett and see what I can do.”
She did not express gratitude or rhapsodize about my kindness. Devorah simply rose, clutched her reticule, gave me a polite nod, and made for the door.
Brewster opened it for her from the other side with the attentiveness of a well-trained footman. He stepped back as she walked out, me stumping after her.
“How may I send word to you?” I asked as she descended the stairs. “I assume you do not wish your father to know of this visit.”
Devorah paused halfway down. “Indeed, no. Write any message for me and leave it with the bakeshop woman below. I beg you not to call upon my father, or attempt to visit him in his home, or even to walk into our neighborhood.” She gave me another stiff bow. “Good day, Captain.”
She continued down the stairs, her heels clicking on the bare, polished wood. A draft blew upward as she opened the door below, then cut off when she slammed it.
“Whew,” Brewster said. “A cold fish.”
“I imagine life has not been easy for her.” I ascended the few steps I’d gone down, reentered my rooms, and moved to the window. Miss Hartman marched down the narrow cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane for Russell Street, her bonnet moving neither left nor right as she went.
“Life ain’t easy for most,” Brewster said. “You either learn to live in spite of it, or become so brittle it breaks you.”
“Her parents likely expected her to fill the role of the lost sister,” I said. “To become her, perhaps. And were disappointed when she could not.”
The low crown of Miss Hartman’s bonnet bobbed slightly, then was lost as she turned to the more crowded street.
“Jews are hard on their women,” Brewster said with an air of one who knew the way of the world. “Expect them to be pillars of virtue. Then more or less bargain away their daughters to their friends when it’s time for them to marry. They hide their wives—they can’t even sit with the men in their house of worship. It’s men in one world, women in another.”
“The haut ton is not much different,” I felt obliged to point out, though I had no idea whether his assessment of a Hebrew woman’s life was correct. “Men have their clubs; women organize fetes.”
“Ye live separate lives, that is true, but ye don’t sequester your wives. Your lady gads about as she pleases, without you putting the shackles on her.” His lips twitched. “’Tis more the other way ’round.”
I gave him a severe look. “I will thank you to keep your opinions on my marriage to yourself. Not all of us can be as idyllically happy as you.”
Brewster looked pleased. “My Em’s a rare one, that’s for certain. Now, are you about to rush to Cavendish Square and look up this Mr. Bennett?”
“Not immediately,” I said. “I’d like to ask Pomeroy’s opinion of all this. If Mr. Bennett is careless enough to lose two wives, one completely disappearing, the magistrates might have taken notice. Not necessarily, but I’d like to find out.”
“Well.” Brewster ran his hand through his hair and replaced his hat. “If you’re going to Bow Street, then I’ll bugger off home for a few minutes. I haven’t seen me wife for a time. Mr. Denis kept me with him all night.”
“Sleep as much as you like,” I said. “You have no need to accompany me. Cavendish Square is not Seven Dials.”
Brewster snorted. “Captain, you could find trouble inside St. James’s Palace. Likely more than you could in Seven Dials. I’ll be going with you.”
With that, he settled his hat more firmly on his head, marched down the stairs, and out.
He could have napped in my bedchamber or upstairs in the attics, but I knew the real reason for his going. I didn’t blame him. Emily Brewster was a fine woman, indeed.
***
Milton Pomeroy, my sergeant until 1814, now a famed Bow Street Runner, was not in the magistrate’s house when I entered it. Timothy Spendlove, unfortunately, was.
I was glad Brewster had gone. Spendlove might have come up with an excuse to arrest him, knowing he was a hired ruffian for Denis. I knew he always looked for an excuse to arrest me.
“Captain.” His hail stopped me as I was leaving, having ascertained that Pomeroy was not in.
Spendlove’s hair and long side whiskers were a dark red, his face completely covered with freckles, his eyes light blue. Spendlove was a big man, of my height and build, and had a voice as strong as Pomeroy’s, though he liked to lower it to intimidating tones.