The Thames River Murders Page 2

  “Where on earth would you take her?”

  “Someplace safe, I assure you.”

  Brewster continued to watch me in silence. Thompson looked over the bones, pushed back his low-crowned hat, and scratched his head.

  “Can your surgeon not come here?” he asked. “Would be simpler all around.”

  I cast about for some excuse. While Thompson was an informal man in many ways, I did not think he’d look the other way if a convicted felon, escaped from his punishment, were delivered into his house.

  “He is of delicate constitution,” I ventured. “The air would not agree with him.”

  Thompson looked amused. “Must be tricky for him to perform his surgeries then.”

  “He is retired.” That was at least close to the truth. “I will take good care of … her.”

  Thompson considered further, rubbing his lip, then he righted his hat. “I suppose I trust you, Captain. But take care. Without these bones, we wouldn’t know there was a crime, a deceased person at all.”

  “Of course.”

  Thompson made no more comment, only began carefully piling the bones in the middle of the canvas, then rolling it up with the same gentleness.

  He put everything back into the crate that Brewster, with a dark look at me, lifted for him.

  “She’s been kept fairly cold,” Thompson said. He found a hammer on a cluttered workbench and pounded the nails into the lid again. He laid down the hammer and leaned an elbow on the top of the box. “Mind you keep her cool, now that the weather’s turning warm.”

  It was not all that warm today, under a thick mist, but I took his meaning. Cold preserved, heat destroyed.

  Brewster heaved the crate into his arms without being asked, but he did not disguise his distaste. He’d long thought I was mad, ever since the day he’d come across a valuable pile of silver objects hidden in my house in Norfolk. He’d offered to split the loot with me, but I’d insisted on returning the pieces to their rightful owner.

  Thompson wrapped up the cloth and locket, which I placed into my pocket, then Thompson led the way out again.

  I had the feeling of emerging from a tomb. The cold from the underground room fell away as we climbed out to the open air. Though fog prevailed, it was warmer outside, the dampness clinging to the skin. The two young men who had been working below looked disappointed when they saw us come out, and slunk back down to resume their tasks.

  Thompson helped Brewster lift the crate into the coach. Thompson rested a hand on it a moment, as though saying good-bye to a friend.

  “Thank you, Captain. Let me know what you discover.”

  No hurrying me. Perfect trust. Thompson was a man confident everything would resolve itself in due time.

  We shook hands, then Thompson lifted his hat and disappeared back into the house.

  “You aren’t thinking of taking that home are ye?” Brewster asked, his look wary.

  I imagined explaining to Donata that I had placed a pile of brown bones in her cellar for safekeeping. “No,” I answered.

  “Mr. Denis ain’t going to like them either.” Brewster’s scowl was formidable.

  “I know.” I started to climb into the coach. Brewster put his hand on my back to help shove me inside but remained on the ground.

  “I’ll ride up top,” he said. “I don’t fancy sharing a vehicle with a dead body.”

  “Perfectly understandable.” I settled myself into the seat and drew my greatcoat closed against the fog. “Tell the coachman to take us to Grosvenor Street.”

  Brewster’s dour look fled, and his eyes lit. “So that’s your idea, is it? I can’t wait to see his face.”

  ***

  Lucius Grenville lived in splendor in Grosvenor Street, in the heart of Mayfair. His mansion’s facade was unpretentious, plain even. Rows of uniformly spaced windows marched across it, each flanked by a pair of recently painted black shutters. The front door, also black, with a fanlight, held a polished brass knocker.

  The unadorned exterior hid a house of magnificence. The homes of Mayfair, which shared common walls, might be one room and a hallway wide facing the street, but the bulk of the house ran far back into the property. Grenville’s home was quite large within, containing lavish rooms on the ground and first floors for his guests, elegant private chambers above for the privileged few.

  The footman who answered the door was Matthias, brother to the young man who now valeted for me. Matthias was tall, blond, and muscular, the epitome of the handsome footman Mayfair residents wanted seen at their front doors.

  “He’s not at home, sir,” Matthias said after he’d greeted me. “But please come in and rest if you like, and I’ll serve you something. Mr. Grenville’s door is always open to you.”

  He cast a glance at Brewster who’d climbed down to stand behind me. Matthias did not approve of Brewster, though he acknowledged his help in the past.

  “That is kind of you,” I said. “But I’ve come only to deliver something—to ask Grenville to keep it safe for me, to speak more concisely.”

  “Of course, sir.” Matthias held the door open wide, never questioning. “We can put whatever it is in his collections room.”

  “Ah.” I paused. “His wine cellar was more what I had in mind.”

  “Oh?” Matthias peered dubiously at the crate Brewster was now hauling out of the coach. “An interesting vintage?”

  “You might say that.”

  Behind me, Brewster chuckled, his sour temper lightened. “Show us the way, lad.”

  Matthias opened his mouth to no doubt state that both Brewster and his burden should enter through the kitchen, then closed it. My friendship with Grenville occupied a place that didn’t quite fit with Grenville’s other acquaintance. Matthias gave a shrug, led us inside the front door, through the elegant hall, and down the back stairs to the kitchens and cellars.

  Grenville’s staff were working to keep up the magnificence of his household. Two footmen industriously polished a large quantity of silver in the servants’ hall. Maids were in the laundry room, steam rolling out as they applied whatever magic they knew to Grenville’s linens. The chef, Anton, hovered in the large kitchen, closely watching his assistant, a rather harried young man, as he stuffed a bird lying spread on a platter.

  Anton glanced up when he heard our steps in the corridor, the displeased look on his face turning to rapture when he saw me.

  “Captain!” Anton was a rather small man with a round stomach and stooped shoulders, but a wide, beaming smile. I have no idea how much of a martinet he was in his kitchen, but when it came to guests to feed, he was benevolence itself. “You are here,” he announced. “Sit, sit. I will give you a déjeuner not to forget.”

  I bowed. “I thank you, sir, but I am here only briefly.”

  Anton’s look turned scornful. “Nonsense. You are a gentleman. You have these …” His fluttering fingers took in Matthias and Brewster “… to do your work, while you are fed by me.” He shouted to one of the footmen across the hall. “Lay a place upstairs for the captain. He will dine.”

  Brewster lifted brows at me, but he trudged on after Matthias, taking his burden through the door to the wine cellar that Matthias opened for him.

  Matthias nodded to me. “Go on, sir. I’ll take care of everything. Mr. Grenville would likely have my head for bringing you below stairs anyway.”

  I was left standing in the kitchen with the good scents of Antoine’s fine cuisine floating around me. I succumbed.

  ***

  After the fine meal Anton forced upon me, alone in Grenville’s dining room, I returned home.

  I believe Anton enjoyed feeding me, because I was apt to eat everything in sight and praise it to the skies. With Grenville, Anton expected a certain amount of criticism; which he asked for to further his quest to be the best chef in the world. I simply enjoyed.

  “Her ladyship is awake, sir,” Barnstable informed me as I entered. “Asking for you.”

  I brushed dust from my
sleeves. “I am hardly in a fit state to see her at the moment.”

  I had grime from the London streets embedded in my clothes, and who knew what dirt from the cellar to which Thompson had ushered me. Anton had let me wash my hands and face in a basin before I sat down to eat, but he was less scrupulous about my state of cleanliness than in wishing me to polish off every morsel.

  Barnstable gave me an apologetic look. “She said she needed to see you the moment you stepped foot in the door.”

  “She will hardly thank me if I smear her pristine silk sofa with London’s black mud. Send her word I will attend upon her once I’ve changed my clothes.”

  Barnstable’s expression remained stoic, but I saw the flicker of dismay in his eyes. Donata was not a despot in her own home, but she did like her whims obeyed. I took pity on Barnstable.

  “I’ll tell her myself,” I said. “I realize her delicate state makes her a bit impatient.”

  Barnstable’s relief was apparent, but he only answered with a neutral, “Yes, sir.”

  The relief told me that Donata had been a bit peevish when she’d risen. She was in possession of a sharp tongue, which could sting if one did not know how to withstand her barbs.

  I moved past Barnstable, who gave me a silent look of thanks, and up the stairs to my lady’s chamber.

  Donata Anne Catherine St. John, nee Pembroke, the daughter of an earl, widow of a viscount, and now simply Mrs. Captain Gabriel Lacey, reclined as gracefully as ever on a chaise in her boudoir.

  Coffee reposed at her elbow as did an empty glass with a small amount of film clinging to its interior. Conclusion—she’d been ill soon after she woke.

  The casual observer would never suspect it but for that glass with a draught to settle her stomach. Her color was high, her golden silk peignoir flowed over her limbs, and her dark hair was caught in a bandeau with careless elegance. The only thing missing was the cigarillo wafting its smoke about her face—she’d declared the things made her queasy when she was with child and had reluctantly given them up.

  Donata held several letters in her hand and did not look up when she heard my step.

  “There you are, Gabriel. Barnstable said you’d gone out. Where on earth did you find to run to in the small hours of the morning?”

  “It was nine,” I said. “It is one o’clock now. Which is the small hours of the morning for you.”

  I did not move from the doorway, knowing I could not be surrounded by the best of odors, in spite of my contact with Anton’s kitchen. Death has a miasma of its own.

  Donata looked up. Her dark hair held a gloss that picked up the sunlight through the windows, burnishing a gold streak in it that matched her garment. Her fine-boned face held the arrogance of the aristocrat—her family’s ancestors had graced this land from Saxon times, integrating themselves with the upstart Normans and continuing from there.

  Her eyes were her best feature, in my opinion, dark blue and bottomless. When I looked into those eyes, my cares and pain fell away, and I drowned in her.

  Few cracked the hard shell she’d formed around herself through years of unhappiness, but I’d found the way to the true Donata.

  “Will you prop up the doorframe or come in?” Donata asked, an edge to her voice. “I do hate to shout across the room.”

  “I have been to Wapping and back in not the cleanest of hackneys,” I said. “Let me change to something more suitable, and I will attend you.”

  “Nonsense, Gabriel. You are perfect as you are. Please, do come closer. If you fear to put dust on the furniture, you may stand, or I will have Barnstable fetch towels for you to sit upon. But I really must speak to you.”

  Her adamance made me curious. I had expected her to flap her hand and say, Yes, yes, if you think it best, instead of insisting I stay.

  “What is it?” I came to her, but halted about six feet away. If her stomach was a perilous place, and I smelled of horse, dank cellar, and death, it might lead to a headlong rush to her basin.

  She lifted the papers she’d been reading. “I’ve been perusing these letters again. The ones accusing you of being an imposter. I think—I am not entirely certain—but I might know who wrote them.”

  Chapter Three

  The crease between Donata’s brows and her lack of amusement with which she had previously regarded the blackmailing missives, gave me some disquiet.

  “Well?” I asked when she paused. “Will you tell me a name?”

  “Only if you will promise me you will not rush from here and stab him through the neck with your sword. You are rather precipitous at times.”

  Since I found the letters in bad taste but ridiculous, I did not think they’d drive me to murderous frenzy. I saved that for more worthy endeavors.

  “I give you my word,” I said. “I will remain calm until we know for certain who is the author of these profane letters.”

  Still Donata hesitated, as though debating whether to speak. “There was a man,” she began slowly. “Before I married Breckenridge, I rather foolishly encouraged a gentleman into pursuing me, believing I’d marry him if he asked me. I was young and silly enough to think I could follow my heart in matters of matrimony.”

  “I am pleased you have come to your senses,” I said dryly.

  She flicked me a glance. “You know what I mean. I imagine you were full of glorious fantasies of romance and love when you were seventeen.”

  “Worse,” I admitted. “I was twenty, and married the lady.”

  Donata knew all about that. I did not regret having a child with my first wife—I now had my beautiful daughter, Gabriella—but the marriage was a disaster on all other counts.

  “Then you understand,” Donata said. “I was besotted, as only a girl can be. He was a thorough blackguard, of course. But oh, so charming. Breckenridge was horrible in his own way, but from a respectable and ancient family, which made all the difference to my father and mother. If I had married with my heart, eloped with my charming gentleman, I would be destitute, ruined, and cut off from everyone I hold dear. Alas, such thoughts do not enter one’s head at seventeen.”

  “Probably not.” My daughter was eighteen, I thought with a qualm. Donata’s father had been strong enough to curb her, powerful enough to set up an aristocratic marriage for her. How much power did I, a poor country gentleman and half-pay army officer, have to prevent my daughter from a foolish mistake?

  “Are you saying,” I went on, “that the writer of these threatening letters is your former inamorato?”

  She gave me a look of scorn. “Matters hardly went that far. My love was innocent, though I am certain he had other ideas. But yes, I suspect him. He enjoyed flowery phrases, and these letters are rife with them. Besides, I can think of no other person who would wish to destroy my marriage to you.”

  “No?” I asked. “I can think of a good many.”

  Donata had been a wealthy widow, and her son was a viscount, possessor of vast tracts of property and piles of money. And who had sidled in to steal her from the gentlemen of the ton? A forty-odd year-old army captain, lame, with one suit to his name, who lived over a bakeshop in Covent Garden.

  Three quarters of Mayfair was furious with me. They blamed Grenville for bringing a nobody into contact with their number, where I could meet a lady like Donata. They were entirely right, but that did not mean I’d give up my lady, tuck my tail between my legs, and scurry back to my damp, rundown house in Norfolk like a good country squire. Donata also had two cousins highly enraged that I’d cut them out of any chance with her.

  “None who would send letters like this.” Donata gestured with the paper she held. “There was always a little something mad about him. Probably added to his appeal—girls can be such idiots.”

  “What is this gentleman’s name?” I asked again.

  “Hmm.” Donata’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain now that I will reveal it. Not because I am ashamed, but you do tend to let your temper get the better of you, and you have the unfortunate tend
ency to draw the ire of the Runners.”

  “That is so,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. “All the same, I wish you would tell me.”

  “I will think on it.” Donata folded the letter and tucked it into a pocket of her peignoir. “I might be wrong, in any case. No use in you kicking a poor unfortunate who was minding his own business. Besides, he might have reformed.”

  I doubted it. Once a roué always a roué, in my experience.

  “Wherever did you go this morning?” Donata asked, the business of the letters finished. “Barnstable tells me you had a message then dashed out in a hackney.”

  “I did indeed. I am prepared to tell you all about it if I am allowed to make myself presentable.”

  “You do fuss so, Gabriel. Very well. Please be quick. I am too impatient these days.”

  I adjourned to my chamber, hurried through my ablutions, and let Bartholomew, my valet, tuck me into another suit. I owned several now, as my wife insisted that any husband of hers must look presentable.

  I cared very little for clothing, but I had no wish to embarrass her, so I consulted Grenville, who referred me to a tailor who would dress me in clothes to suit me. As a result, I now owned several subdued, everyday ensembles, formal coats and trousers for elegant occasions, and several sets of riding clothes.

  Returning to Donata’s boudoir, I felt more confident taking a seat next to her.

  Donata’s room was entirely feminine, all ivory and gold, its furniture ornate and gilded, or elegantly plain. Ivory draperies trimmed with gold flowed at the windows, an ebony table at Donata’s side held her coffee; a matching table at my side held mine.

  I enjoyed coffee at any time of the day, and I readily drank it. A rich heat filled my mouth and warmed my stomach. I reflected that I was becoming pampered and soft, living in this luxury.

  I related my visit to Thompson and what he had showed me, sparing her no details. Donata was resilient enough, even belly-full as she was, to listen without flinching. Indeed, she’d have taken me to task if I’d spared her any description.

  I also showed her the cloth, which she stroked in curiosity, pronouncing it a rather well-woven cotton. The necklace too had been expensive, but we both agreed the clothes and necklace might have been gifts, or stolen.