I tapped on the roof and called for Jackson to stop. The carriage halted. “You go on to Curzon Street,” I told Grenville. “I am off to Cavendish Square. When Bennett hears about his dead footman, he might flee. I will stay there until Brewster or whomever Denis sends arrives. Please impress upon Mr. Denis the importance of the situation.”
Grenville looked doubtful. “I will try. But I cannot say he will listen to me.”
“He’ll send men to Cavendish Square if only to drag me out of Bennett’s house to beat me for my impertinence. But that doesn’t matter. I want them there. Bennett might escape the Watch, but he will not escape Denis.”
I did not give Grenville time to argue. Jackson had thoughtfully pulled over to the side of the street so I did not have to land in the middle of traffic. I slammed the door and moved off, hobbling to the nearest hackney stand.
***
Bennett had already gone to bed, to sleep the sleep of the just when I arrived. The startled footman who answered the door told me this, then went pale with shock when I explained that Jack was dead.
I told the footman I would be sitting the rest of the night in the upstairs hall to prevent more murders in this household. “No, do not rouse Mr. Bennett,” I finished. “Let him sleep. We will tell him in the morning.”
The footman scuttled away. He hurried down the back stairs, his voice ringing out the news about Jack before the door shut behind him to muffle his frantic words.
I slid out the flask I’d brought with me tonight in case I needed to settle my stomach while watching the young men flutter around Gabriella. I took a fortifying sip of brandy then ascended the stairs to the second floor and planted myself on a cushioned bench in the hall.
It was warm, the house stuffy, which would ensure I didn’t catch cold. It might send me to sleep though. I firmed my jaw, determined to be wakeful and not let Bennett slip away.
I did not have to wait long to discover what Denis would do. Within an hour, the footman who’d admitted me scurried up the stairs to say a man called Brewster was asking for me.
I went down. Brewster was in the street, the bulk of him tight with anger.
“His nibs says you should have asked him for his help in the first place,” Brewster began. Any friendliness he’d showed me a few days ago was gone. “Not had me send in someone out of his depth.”
Denis, I recalled, had warned me off the business entirely, thus forcing me to use the assistance of those I could. Perhaps Denis’s anger hid remorse.
“Brewster, I am so very sorry. I never thought it would come to this.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “You’re not to blame, Captain. I am. I didn’t take the danger seriously. Mr. Denis has sent six men. They’ve dispersed all around the house. This Bennett steps a foot out, they’ll be on him. He’ll not get away.”
“I’ll avenge your friend, Brewster. I promise you that.”
“Jack were a bloody thief,” Brewster said, scowling. “But a good lad for all that.”
“Perhaps one of the men can be spared to accompany me to Soho,” I said. “I want to know where Bennett went tonight.”
“I’ll spare me,” Brewster returned. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again, sir.”
***
Brewster had a quick word with one of the ruffians I’d witnessed beating Molodzinski in Denis’s staircase hall, then he trotted after me as I strode south to Oxford Street. I was too agitated and too cramped to wait for a hackney, so I simply walked.
Bartholomew had said Bennett visited number 18 in a lane off Soho Square. It stood to reason that Bennett had returned there again when Jack was following him—though I couldn’t be certain. Regardless, I wanted to know what business he had at that address.
We headed from Oxford Street down into Soho Square. In the late part of the last century, a brothel patronized by the wealthy wanting novelty had stood in this square. From tales I’d heard, it had been part brothel, part stage set. A man would arrange to meet one of the courtesans of the house, and then upon entering a bedroom would find the lights going out and a specter or skeleton coming at him instead. Such were the entertainments of the rich and world-weary.
That house was gone now, but other brothels had sprung up. Soho Square spilled out its south side not far from Seven Dials, where life was dangerous.
The only number 18 was in a small lane on this south end. The house itself was solid and plain, nothing unusual.
In spite of the late hour, a light burned in the upper windows. Was this a discreet brothel? Or the home of Bennett’s mistress? Or some other sort of house—a gaming hell, perhaps, where Bennett squandered away Captain Woolwich’s money?
The only way to discover was to enter. I knocked.
The door was wrenched open by, of all things, a small urchin. He was about nine years old and had a belligerent face and brown eyes.
While brothels often had boys who ran errands and were on hand for much more sordid requests, this boy did not have the look. He was a sturdy lad, and when I studied his face, a realization struck me and struck me hard.
“Well,” the boy asked. “Whatcha want?”
I stood, dumbfounded, unable to speak. Before the lad could slam the door in my face, a woman came down the stairs. She was pretty, about thirty, with brown hair peeping from under a cap.
“Mark,” she called. “Who is it?” She reached the bottom of the stairs, saw me, and stopped short. “If you’ve come from the beaks, you needn’t bother me,” she snapped. “He’s paid the debt.”
I finally swallowed the lump in my throat. “I am not a creditor, madam, nor from the magistrates.” I drew a breath and took a chance. “Mrs. Andrew Bennett?”
She looked me up and down. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? What’s happened?”
Behind me, Brewster made an amazed sound. “’Struth,” he said.
I agreed with him wholeheartedly.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mrs. Bennett—her Christian name was Ella—let us come in out of the night but no farther than the vestibule. Her son Mark hovered nearby as though ready to launch into us if we made any move toward his mother.
Two more children lingered upstairs, peering down through the railings. So much for the theory that Bennett was impotent.
“I would like to talk with Mr. Bennett,” I said after I’d recovered my powers of speech. “Is he in?”
“He’s not. His work took him off again. Ye still haven’t told me what you want.”
The woman was comely, and her eyes, though now full of anger, could be soft, I sensed. Bennett had set himself up a nice little nest here.
Was he married to her in truth? Or had he fooled her as I’d suspected he’d tricked Judith Hartman?
I cast around for some excuse to have called. “I need to pass on a message. About his work. Where would Mr. Bennett be tonight?”
Ella’s brows remained lowered. “Well, I’m not certain. He travels about. Ye leave your message with me, and your name, and I’ll see he gets it.”
“Ah.” No one had ever assumed me a quick thinker, and I found it difficult to be anything other than painfully honest. “Yes, well, please tell him that Mr. … Ah …” I floundered.
“Brewster,” Brewster said quickly. He poked a thumb at me. “He’s Mr. Brewster.”
“Yes,” I said. “My name should be enough. When do you expect him to return?”
“Couldn’t say. Call back in a couple of days.”
The dismissal was evident. I gave her a polite bow, and made for the door. “My apologies for disturbing you,” I said. “Have a good night.”
Ella looked slightly appeased at my courtesy, but she folded her arms and waited for me to leave.
We got ourselves outside into the lane, and I slapped on my hat. “Bloody hell,” I muttered.
“Very cozy,” Brewster said. “Not that I’d try it. My Em would find me out and come at me with a hatchet.”