“Ah,” he said. “I can see why you sent for an expert.”
“I’m looking for any record of Judith Hartman’s disappearance being reported. Any mention of her at all, actually. Or any information about her husband, Andrew Bennett. I would like to see a record of Miss Hartman’s marriage to Bennett as well—I’ll have to visit the vicar who married them.”
So muttering to myself, I picked over another ledger. Molodzinski said nothing at all but quietly went to work, and soon assessed what was what.
We never found anything about Bennett—no mention of him at all. However, after another hour, Molodzinski ferreted out a note in a book, written in the cramped hand of a long-since-gone patroller.
The pages recorded his reports of 19 May, 1803. I read through it, picturing the man’s face screwing up as he struggled with spelling.
Reported missing, Miss Hartman, daughter of a Hebrew. Last seen in Aldgate High Street, not far from the great sinigog, according to Miss Devra Hartman, sister. Both are daughters of Mr. Joseph Hartman of the Strand.
“The significant thing,” I said, peering at the note, “besides his misspellings, is that there is no mention of Mr. Andrew Bennett. She’s styled as Miss Hartman. A spinster, not a wife.”
“Perhaps the elder Miss Hartman did not consider her sister married,” Molodzinski speculated. “Miss Hartman and her father strike me as those clinging to traditional ways.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “I consider myself very modern, very free thinking, though I have no intention of converting to the Anglo religion, thank you very much. But Hartman, though he wears the clothes of an Englishman, he keeps his beard and is a traditionalist at heart, especially when it comes to his daughters.”
“It seems Devorah agrees with him,” I said. “So she noticed Judith gone. How, I wonder, if they were estranged? Had she planned to meet with her?”
“For that, you’ll have to ask her. But wait, I have found another mention.”
A similar report, in another hand, had been written five days later. Missing, Mrs. Andrew Bennett. Last seen, Aldgate High Street Wednesday, 16 May. Told to me by Mr. Itzak Stein, a Hebrew.
“Mr. Stein again,” I said, excitement stirring. “The man who hoped to be Judith’s husband.” I copied out the reports into my silver-cased notebook then snapped the case shut. “I believe I will pay a visit to Mr. Stein.” I paused. “As soon as I have an address.”
“Not today, you won’t,” Molodzinski said. “It’s Saturday. If he’s anything like Hartman and his elder daughter, he will be at the Great Synagogue, muttering and praying.”
Saturday was considered the Sabbath among the Hebrews. This fact had come up a time or two in the army, but then, most of us had not stopped battles or marches for any sort of holy day. Hebrews had to pretend at least to belong to the official church to take the oath to join the army, but there had been ways around that.
I looked Molodzinski up and down. “You do not seem to be there with him.”
Molodzinski shook his head, self-deprecating. “Me, I am a sinner and not so pious. My mother is no longer alive to scold me, and so I rush to help you in your investigations instead of spending my day in contemplation and study.”
I slid my notebook into my pocket and took up my hat. “If Mr. Stein is at the synagogue, then I will take myself there and wait for him to come out.”
“Will you? Do you know what he looks like?”
I deflated. “No, I don’t. But perhaps Hartman will point him out to me.”
“Hartman might shoot you on the spot. Never mind.” Molodzinski pulled on his gloves. “I will go with you, ask about Mr. Stein for you, and prevent you having Hartman’s fist up your nose. Or his eldest daughter’s—she sounds formidable.”
“She is,” I agreed.
“Then it is settled. I will protect you from the wrath of Miss Hartman.”
Chuckling, Molodzinski led the way from the cellar back to the main floor of the Bow Street house.
Outside, the clouds had gathered to threaten more rain, but it was still dry, warm, and a bit sticky.
Later this summer, once the Season was officially over, we would repair first to Norfolk to see the ongoing work on my ancestral home, then visit Donata’s family in Oxfordshire. We’d journey from there to Hampshire to the Breckenridge estate, which I’d never seen. I looked forward to cool country breezes and long rides on horseback, taking my ease from the crowded city.
The crowded city now pressed upon us. On Saturday, those of the Christian faith were working, hurrying, shopping, readying themselves for their one day of rest a week.
I could not censure Molodzinski for not attending his house of worship today, because I, cradle-born to the C of E, spent my Sundays with my feet up at home, not racing to the nearest church to listen to the vicar’s hour-long sermon.
The airless hackney lurched through streets at a slow pace, taking us too near the river for my taste. Molodzinski pointedly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and flapped it in front of his nose. That appendage was less swollen now, as was his eye, though his bruises from Denis’s men were still dark.
We emerged into the City and made for Cornhill, passing Molodzinski’s place of work, and through Leadenhall into Aldgate, east of Aldgate High Street, where Judith had last been seen.
A turning from Aldgate, called Duke’s Place, housed what was known as the Great Synagogue. Another synagogue stood further up the road—Bevis Marks—but Molodzinski confidently steered me into Duke’s Place. What the difference was between the two I did not wish to profess my ignorance and ask.
I had passed this synagogue whenever I had dealings in this part of London, but aside from a few curious glances, I’d never given it much thought. The building was quietly unpretentious in the Adam style, with flights of steps leading to an arched portico, above which were many-paned windows.
Apparently I could enter as a visitor, and as I moved into the interior, I removed my hat.
“Heads remained covered, Captain,” Molodzinski said in a quiet voice. Startled, I replaced my hat on my head, feeling odd to do so, and followed him in.
The service had already begun. Molodzinski slipped us to a bench in the back, and we sat quietly.
I looked around in wonder. We were in a lofty room that rose three stories above us, many arched windows letting in soft daylight. As was the outside, the inside was subdued yet beautifully elegant. The walls were pale, the flat corbeled ceiling softly arched around its edges. Enormous chandeliers hung from this ceiling, and I amused myself trying to count the candles in their many tiers.
In the center of the house was a sort of platform, under another chandelier, enclosed by a railing, where men stood to read or chant. Beyond them, on the far end of the room was an arched recess, flanked by columns and encircled by a low gold screen. No one went near this place, which had been treated with the reverence of an altar, but I knew it was not one. Perhaps it was the place where they kept the holy books, but I wasn’t certain.
Brewster had been correct when he’d said that the men and women were separated for the service. On the ground floor, where Molodzinski and I sat, were only men. I looked up at the gallery that encircled the first floor to see the ladies sitting behind a railing, their colorful gowns welcome hues in this place of white.
A few of the women peered curiously down at me, likely wondering who was this stiff Anglo in their midst. I spied Devorah Hartman among them, but she did not look at me—I could not tell whether she’d noticed me at all. She had her head bowed, her gaze downward, her eyes possibly closed.
I looked for Mr. Hartman among the men, but there were too many here today for me to distinguish him.
In the middle platform, a man—a cantor, I supposed—began to sing.
A curious thing happened. I could not understand one word of his chant, sung in a clear, beautiful tenor, but I felt peace steal over me. Around me, heads were bowed, men studying books in their hands or with eyes closed in prayer.