Her eyes widened. “Indeed, I will not. To do so would be to enrage his family, who are old friends of Aline’s. I agree—Mr. Garfield grated upon me when I first met him, but when you get past his feeble attempts at wit, he is quite personable.”
“If you will forgive me, he is also good looking,” I said coldly. “Which does nothing for me, but might cause you and Aline, and Gabriella, to overlook his defects.”
Donata sent me a pitying look. “Absolute nonsense. I do not judge a man’s character on his looks. How foolish.”
“You might not, but Gabriella? She is young, naive, has rusticated in France …”
“Yes, the French are known for their celibate ways.” Donata put her hand on my chest. “Do not worry so, Gabriel. If I thought him a bad sort, I would never have invited him, old friends of Aline’s or no. He is nothing like Mr. Bennett, trust me.”
“But he might have written the letters.” I poured out my worry, describing the conversation I’d had with him.
“Hmm.” Donata’s brows drew together. “I will have to think about that. But admit, Gabriel, that what the letter-writer claims is nothing more than what ill-willed members of my set have said. Or what journalists have speculated. All are baffled that I esteem you so much, and conclude that I must be a halfwit, bedazzled by a fraud. But as we are not Margaret Woolwich and Mr. Bennett, I refuse to be angered by such things. Mr. Garfield is only repeating what he has heard.”
“That may be,” I conceded, though I would take it upon myself to find out. “But I still don’t like him.”
Donata smoothed my cheek, and rested her head on my shoulder as the carriage swayed slowly home. “My dear, you will not like any gentleman who looks at Gabriella. Even when she is in her dotage.”
I had to agree that this was true.
***
I dreamed of Judith again that night, even though Donata slept beside me. In this dream, she looked like her sister, Devorah, prim, cool, unforgiving. Again I saw her coming toward me on a street, again, when she reached me, she deteriorated into bones.
I tossed, woke sweating, and left Donata’s bed so I would not wake her. I spent the rest of the night alone in my bedchamber, staring at the canopy, until exhaustion overcame me, and I slept, this time without dreams.
In the morning I journeyed in a hackney to Bow Street and once again looked for Pomeroy. Today, I found him in.
“Pleasant to see ye, Captain!” he boomed down the stairs as a patroller motioned me to go up. “Hear Thompson has you poring over a bag of bones. I’ll wager you know who they belong to, how he died, who killed him, and what he had for breakfast that morning.”
“Not quite,” I said as I reached him.
I glanced around for Spendlove, certain that Pomeroy’s bellowing would tell the man all he needed to know.
“You’ve come to ask for my help, have you?” Pomeroy continued at the top of his voice. “What can I do that the great Captain Lacey cannot?”
His blue eyes twinkled, and his grin was wide.
“You can keep my inquiries to yourself for one. May we speak in private?”
“Of course!” Pomeroy gestured me into a small room at the top of the stairs, one I’d been in before. Here was a table and a few chairs, shelves of ledgers and papers, a place to write up reports.
“The dead woman’s name is Judith Hartman,” I said, seeing no reason to keep it secret anymore. Thompson would tell Pomeroy that if he asked—indeed would have written it into an official record. “This is Thompson’s case, so please respect that.”
“Now, what sort of Runner would I be if I pinched convictions off others?” The glint in Pomeroy’s eye told me he’d do just that whenever he could. He liked Thompson, however. Respected him.
“I want to know two things,” I said. “One, if there have been any complaints made about Mr. Andrew Bennett—who seems to lose wives in convenient fashion. Two, if Miss Hartman’s disappearance was reported at the time she went missing—about fifteen years ago—how would I find out? I want to paint a picture of her last days, but the people in her life are being singularly uncooperative.”
“Couldn’t be you’re putting their backs up, could it?” Pomeroy’s good humor returned. “Haven’t heard a word, to my knowledge, about this Bennett chap, or Miss Hartman. Fifteen years, eh? Before my time. Fifteen years ago, I was rushing around following your orders.”
This was so. By then we’d left France, the Peace of Amiens evaporating, and gone back to England for training. Long days reviewing troops, drilling, solving petty problems of soldiers weary of waiting for things to happen. I’d tried to bury myself in routine to take away the fiery pain of losing my wife and daughter.
“There would be records,” I said.
“Aye, that there would. Do you mean you want to root around in papers fifteen years old? If I can even put my hands on them?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Unless someone here remembers the exact case.”
“London is a busy place,” Pomeroy said. “I imagine many things happened here in 1803.”
“Where would I find these records?” I persisted.
Pomeroy let out a sigh. “Follow me, Captain. I don’t know if you’ll find what you need, but if anyone can, it will be you.”
When I saw the room where the records were kept, however, I nearly gave up the slender hope of my idea.
The chamber below street level to which Pomeroy led me was crammed with shelves, tables, boxes, desks, cabinets—all of them full of papers, ledgers, books, and sheets filled with fine-lined writing.
“Good Lord,” I said.
“Records kept since 1724.” Pomeroy proudly waved a hand at them. “Clerk’s records, warrants, court records, every decision by the magistrate, accounts … if someone thought it worth writing down, they wrote it down. Me, I’ve never had to look for anything beyond a few years ago.”
“I see.” My mouth was dry. “Is there some sort of organization?”
Pomeroy shrugged. “I usually have a clerk fetch information for me. But fifteen years ago … Well, poke around as you like, Captain. If anyone objects, tell them to come find me.”
He left me to it. Glumly, I pulled a ledger from the first shelf. There wasn’t much light down here, and I peered at the crowded page until I realized it was records for this house’s poor box.
There was a reason I’d taken well to fighting but never aspired to an administrative post. Brandon had always thought I should be groomed to be an aide-de-camp, but I was not one for records, papers, and the tedious details of army life.
I was much better at yelling at men and keeping them safe. Reading, in my opinion, should be confined to entertaining histories, scientific discoveries, and well-told stories.
I’d brought Bartholomew with me today. I sent for him now, and he looked around with the same dismay.
“Bleedin’ hell, sir. Why would people want to write so much down?”
“Court records are important,” I said. “A way to ensure that judges and magistrates remain honest.”
“Does it work?” Bartholomew asked, his tone dubious.
“Who knows? Fortunately for me, I have become acquainted with a gentleman who might be able to unravel the puzzle for me. Will you go to Cornhill in the City and ask Mr. Molodzinski to join me here?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the time Molodzinski arrived, I had at least found a section of the chamber containing records near a year I was looking for.
I had told myself that a report of Judith’s disappearance might not exist at all, or be buried in a cubbyhole in another magistrate’s house, such as the one at Whitechapel. But Bow Street was sort of a collective whirlpool, since it was the first house to put together the Runners. If a report had been made, I guessed I’d find a copy of it here.
Molodzinski looked around at the chaos, his dark eyes shining.